


To Heal and to Hold

by AltheaB



Category: Star Trek
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Childhood Trauma, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Feels, First Time, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt Jim, Hurt/Comfort, Jim-and-Spock-raise-a-kid, Love, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Protective Spock, Romance, Tarsus IV
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2017-11-05
Packaged: 2018-07-28 15:38:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 14
Words: 31,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7646902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AltheaB/pseuds/AltheaB
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On yet another away-mission-gone-wrong, the Enterprise encounters a remnant of an ancient, malevolent civilization. Any who enter the portal are returned as a shadow of themselves, transformed back into what they were at the darkest, most broken time of their lives.</p><p>Of course it’s Jim who’s almost sucked in. And though they manage to pull him out unscathed, he’s been inside long enough for the portal to work. Jim, Spock and the entire crew stare as it spits out a tiny ten-year-old boy. His huge blue eyes fill up half his emaciated face, and hold enough shadows to make Spock tremble.</p><p>It’s Jim, after Tarsus.</p><p>---------------------------<br/>Or, my version of a Jim-and-Spock-raise-a-child-together-and-fall-in-love-wow-what-a-surprise story. Hopefully done a bit different. I just had to write one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

Chapter 1 - Prologue

 

It’s a five year _exploratory_ mission. To go where no one has gone before… that’s the whole point. How can Jim be expected, after eight weeks of routine patrol, to ignore the siren call of a never-before-seen waveform signal emanating from an uncharted planet?

It doesn’t help that the rest of the crew are practically vibrating with excitement. Chekov’s spiky hair bobs up and down in the corner of Jim’s field of vision as he turns towards Uhura and Spock, listening to their complex shorthand as they run the pattern through every decoder they can think of.

“Any life-forms, Mr. Spock?”

“Negative, Captain. The signal has no organic source, yet is approaching us in modular waves.”

Spock’s voice is as smooth and uninflected as ever, but Jim can read the eagerness and wonder in his first’s voice as he adds, “I have never before encountered such a phenomenon.” It makes Jim smile, to think how far they have come in the eighteen months since Spock tried to strangle him.

“The language, if there is any, is completely unlike any in the Federation database”, Uhura adds, excitement mixed with frustration. “I’m sorry, Captain, there’s nothing more I can tell you.”

“What d’ya say, Spock? Shall we take her down there?”

“There does not appear to be any obvious danger, Sir.”

Jim can’t stop the wide grin from breaking across his face as he meets Spock’s eyes, and he watches them soften with a hint of warmth. “Then down we go, Mr. Sulu!”

“Yes, Captain, Sir!”

They drop slowly through the planet’s thick atmosphere, an odd grayish mist that appears at first glance to be fog, but deforms like foam as the Enterprise passes through. The effect through the viewport is undoubtedly eerie, and a hush falls over the bridge. Jim feels his skin prickle, and Chekov’s hair appears to wilt. Behind him, Uhura rubs her nose, and Spock straightens imperceptibly.

“Sickbay to Bridge!”

Jim waves at Uhura to patch him through, not taking his eyes from the dense grey foam covering the viewport. “Talk to me, Bones.”

The doctor’s voice, though loud and abrasive as ever, has an undercurrent of worry. “Jim, what’s going on? The stress monitors for the whole ship just spiked like crazy! The last time I saw something like this was when we had that Rigelian depressant floating around and we all know how well _that_ turned out - ”

Jim interrupts, all business – “Are the levels still rising?”

“No, they’ve stabilized for now, but at a level significantly higher than normal.”

“Any threat to the crew?”

“Not at the moment, but another twenty percent and it won’t be pretty.”

“All right, Doctor, keep an eye on the situation and let Mr. Sulu know if it escalates; we’ll pull out. Mr. Spock, surface mission analysis?”

Spock’s response is immediate, crisp, and utterly competent. Though Jim’s been expecting it, it still sends a tiny thrill through his already keyed up system. “Oxygen levels are negligible, Captain, but the gravity is one point zero four two Standard units, allowing for easy walking. The grey compound in the atmosphere is made up of an odd carbon fullerene with traces of manganese and parnantium, which while not usual, is not dangerous to the physiology of any crew-member aboard this vessel, being non-toxic, non-corrosive and almost fully inert. The surface is a stable mineral-based rock that will easily support walking, though not the weight of the Enterprise itself, which will have to remain hovering. Electromagnetic radiation is at two point three seven six Standard, within acceptable parameters for exposure and allowing accurate transporter beaming and uninterrupted communications. Taking into account other details, I conclude that a surface mission of up to one hour and twelve minutes will pose no threat to an away team.”

“Great! Just what I wanted to hear! Mr. Scott, prepare a security team. Spock and I are making our way down right now.”

Spock is already standing beside his chair and barking orders into his communicator, waiting for Jim to rise before following him to the turbolift, Uhura in tow. They rendezvous with the four-ensign security team in the transporter room.

Jim takes a deep breath once everyone is suited up. “All right, people. This visit is going to be as brief as we can make it; I don’t like the look of this fog. Mr. Scott, beam us down to about a hundred meters away from the signal source. Mr. Spock, collect whatever samples you like with Ensign Smithson; Lieutenant Uhura, you take Ensigns Lana and Jones; Ensign Freyk, with me. Keep your eyes and ears open. Look around for fifteen minutes and rendezvous back at the drop point. Mr. Scott, unless you hear otherwise, beam us back up in exactly twenty minutes. Understood?”

Jim makes eye contact with each of them through the chorus of “Yes, Sir”, and one quiet, “Understood, Captain” from the Vulcan by his side. His heart is pumping with the thrill of discovery, the lure of the unknown that he’s never been able to resist.

“Beam us down, Scotty!”

\---------------------------------------------------------------------

The greyish foam displaced by their materialization swims around them, and Jim blinks reflexively behind the glass of his helmet. Thankfully, it doesn’t stick, but slides like a light, slick grease with a texture unlike any he’s seen before.

Though they can’t see very far, Jim can just make out a golden glow in the distance. Spock’s voice comes cracking through his earpiece. “The signal appears to be emanating from the glowing object northeast of us, Captain. I suggest we make our way towards it.”

“Agreed, Mr. Spock. Stay connected to your teams, and let’s move out.”

Jim clips a cord to his belt and hands the other end to Ensign Freyk, who clips attaches it to his own. Beside him, the others are doing the same. Jim takes point, Spock and Uhura moving about fifty meters diagonally to his right and left, and they walk forwards, towards the glow.

As they approach the glow, Jim feels a heaviness that he can’t quite place. At first he brushes it off as a reaction to the sheer, oppressive _greyness_ all around them. It grows and grows, however, until he’s breathing hard, despair and anger rolling over him in waves. He hears Ensign Freyk’s gasping breath in his earpiece, and, still walking forwards, briefly turns his head to make sure she’s all right.

In that moment, despair rushes through him, reaching with black, grasping hands into the very marrow of his soul. Jim can’t stop a groan, deep and guttural. _Anger… torment… sorrow… aaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh_ … he can’t think anymore, there are no words, there is only the glow, and somehow he knows it’s the only thing that can save him, and he’s running towards it, running, dragging Ensign Freyk’s slim form behind him as if she weighs nothing, nothing at all.

And suddenly even that resistance is gone, and Ensign Freyk’s gasping moans are low and harsh in his ear as she runs behind him towards the glow that is their only hope, their only hope of respite from soul-crushing despair…

 

As Spock walks forward, he clamps down on the emotion threatening to overwhelm him as he approaches the glow. Something is not right, and he keeps his eyes fixed firmly on Jim, all senses on high alert. He hears Jim’s groan, low and endless, in his earpiece, and ice floods his veins. When he sees Jim start running towards the glow, arms flailing and tripping like a madman, he does not hesitate for an instant before springing into action, barking into his communicator. “Lieutenant Uhura, stop where you are and do not move! Ensign Smithson, after me to retrieve the captain! Mr. Scott, beam up the Captain!”

He’s fully expecting Scotty’s reply, “I’m trying, Mr. Spock, but I can’t get a lock, he’s too close to the glow!” – the experience of countless away missions gone wrong keeping his head clear. But deep in his mind, there’s a chant he can’t control – _Captain, Jim, no, no, no_ – as his Captain’s groans fill his ears. He’s running, his Vulcan speed and strength allowing him to fly across the ground, all but dragging Ensign Smithson behind him. Spock gains on them, close and closer, realizing that it is crushing emotion that has overwhelmed the psi-null, unshielded humans and cutting Ensign Smithson off his cord and ordering Scotty to beam him up in the same instant, brain processing data and coming up with hypothesis after hypothesis.

He’s gaining on them… he reaches Ensign Freyk and jerks her back, stunning her with a nerve pinch and grabbing the cord connecting her to Jim as she slumps to the ground, just as Jim reaches the glow, which resolves itself into a portal and swallows him up.

A cold, golden light blazes around them, blinding him for a split second before his helmet turns reflective to protect his eyes. The blaze goes on and on, ten seconds, twenty, and Jim looks like he is being consumed and Spock can’t breathe – _there was no danger here, I cannot lose Jim like this_ and he finds a strength he hadn’t known he possessed, pulling and pulling against the cord till at last he feels it give and Jim comes hurtling backwards into his arms, knocking him flat.

The glow vanishes, abruptly and as if it had never been there at all. All that is left is a pitch-black archway, paper-thin and reaching up high into the grey fog, tip swallowed completely, as if it rose forever into the sky.

Spock doesn’t see it, has eyes for nothing but Jim, breathing raggedly in his arms.

“Jim? Jim, open your eyes. Can you hear me? Jim?”

And, miracle of miracles, Jim does. He stares into Spock’s eyes, and the relief there makes them look all too human.

“I’m all right.”

Spock breathes out in a rush and closes his eyes, and when he opens them, Jim sees his first officer is back, solicitously helping him rise, saying formally, “I insist upon a medical examination for you, Sir, as soon as we are back on board. Mr. Scott, I presume you can get a signal now?”

Jim hears Scotty and Bones chattering in his ear, and he looks around, catching his breath. Suddenly the archway flashes blinding gold, and a small form is shoved outwards as if by unseen hands, falling hard to the ground.

Spock sees it and pushes himself in front of Jim, phaser at the ready, but the form remains motionless. 

The clearing is utterly still.

Then slowly, slowly, the form rises. Jim and Spock see a young boy, skin and bones, slowly stand up and lift his head, as if every movement causes him pain. His huge blue eyes fill up half his emaciated face, and hold enough shadows to make Spock tremble.

“Will you help me? I’m James Kirk.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here it goes... I know this is a bit rushed, but I wanted to get the framework out there in the prologue and start with the real growth from the next chapter. I hope you guys stay for the ride! Also, this story is far from fully conceptualized, so if there's anything you particularly want to see, please leave a comment! As always, I live for reviews.


	2. Chapter 2

Spock reacts first – his visor’s insistent beeping telling him the oxygen field pushed out of the portal is dissipating fast. He’s also utterly certain, somehow, that this boy is not a threat.

“Beam up Ensign Freyk, Mr. Scott, immediately after I remove her helmet - ” and he’s unsealing the helmet and running to the boy and forcing it over his unresisting head.

Only now, as the boy slowly crumples onto the ground and closes his eyes as the sweet air rushes into his lungs, does Jim finally move. He walks up to the boy and crouches down in front of him, ever so slowly. And sees his face.

_Will you help me? I’m James Kirk._

_I’m James Kirk._

_James Kirk._

Jim doesn’t understand, he can’t begin to process what appears to be in front of him. The searing despair that had been rushing through him bare minutes ago, the throbbing lure of the portal as the only means for relief, the sheer _desperation_ … it’s all vanished, leaving behind dull echoes that resonate through his skull.

And he can’t _think_! Waves of memory, piercing shards of emotion are all rushing through his head in a blur, crashing into existence only to flicker out in the next instance before he can process them, before he can understand what his subconscious somehow already knows.

_It’s me. He’s me._

_Tarsus._

_How?_

And then, worse – _Why?_

\---------------------------------

Only now, with the situation finally appearing to have stabilized, does Spock take a mental breath. He stares down at the Captain, crouching in front of the boy crumpled at his feet. The helmet looks grotesque, grossly oversized on a frame that is little more than cloth-covered bone. The wiry arms poke out from narrow shoulders with the outline of bones starkly visible through the thin cloth of the ragged shirt whose original color is impossible to determine. The boy’s hands are pale, almost white, beneath a veneer of scars and dirt, and they are clenched into fists, as if ready to lash out even as he collapses from exhaustion and whatever effect the portal had on him.

Theories, hypotheses scroll through his brain, skimming across an extensive catalogue of ancient artifacts and their observed effects. He catches a brief flash of a manuscript in the dusky archives of the Vulcan Science Academy, a _kar-lin-mesch_ , a portal of pain designed by an ancient race, long extinct, powerful in both the telepathic and organo-mutational arts. But the details elude him, his mind is in turmoil. He must meditate.

It is not their first encounter with either time travel or alternate realities. Spock has met another version of himself from a parallel universe. He has been _inside_ a mirror-verse. They should be used to this by now.

This thought brings no comfort. Not when there is a hurting, pale, sickly thing of a Jim in front of him, whose pain Spock cannot vanish away. There is no doubt that this small being really is Jim. His entire body screams it.

Though his brain tells him that it is illogical – after all, the Captain is _right here_ beside him, and he has no knowledge of this other Jim, where he came from, if he even _is_ Jim at all – his heart aches. It throbs as though it will burst out of his side, or crumble into a charred mass and sit there, a pile of heavy, blackened dust settling into nothingness. After all, his duty is to protect his Captain. And if the universe has seen fit to thrust another version of James Kirk into his world, then he will protect him with the same intensity. To do otherwise is, simply, impossible.

The jumbled mess of thoughts rush through his mind in the time it takes him to cast a sweeping glance over the pair. And now he notices that the Captain is trembling. Light and delicate, like a ribbon caught in the gentlest, most devastating summer breeze. Spock lays a hand on his shoulder.

“Captain.”

There is no response.

“Captain, this encounter would best be continued back on the ship. I will ask Mr. Scott to beam us back aboard.”

Spock lowers himself into a graceful crouch and faces the boy, who looks up at him warily, eyes slowly moving away from the Captain’s glazed, unseeing ones. He speaks in his usual uninflected, level tone, deep with gentleness.

“Greetings, young one. I am Spock, son of Sarek, First Officer of the USS Enterprise. May I address you as James?”

The boy’s shoulders straighten, and he lifts his chin. “You may.”

Spock is not surprised. His Captain has never been one to show fear.

“Will you accompany me aboard the Enterprise? I assure you that you will be safe there, and we have much to discuss. In any event, the portal through which you joined us has deactivated, and I regret to say that at present I am unaware of a method to send you back. Should you wish to return, however, there are resources aboard the Enterprise that will be channeled to the utmost in an attempt to do so.”

The boy’s eyes are hard, assessing. The words, surprisingly decisive, spill out of him in a vitriolic rush. “I would rather kill myself than stay a minute longer in that place. As a matter of fact, if I was still there I’d probably be dead by now. I don’t know who you are, mister, but you haven’t tried to kill me yet, so I’ll take my chances with you I guess.” The harsh words hang in the air, in stark contrast to his high, childlike voice.

“You are safe with us, James. I assure you of this.” Spock projects calm certainty, even as anger churns underneath his perfect Vulcan facade. _Whatever has happened to you, I will find out, and I will make it go away. I cannot do otherwise._

Spock turns his attention to his Captain.

“Jim.”

Spock’s use of his name, normally enough to make a smile split his face in half, at least succeeds in rousing Jim from whatever darkness he had been lost in. Yes, it is not only James he must speak with. This Jim, the Jim who is his friend, needs his support, and Spock yearns to give it to him. _Soon_.

“Sir, may I request Mr. Scott to beam us back aboard?”

Jim gives a slow nod.

“Beam us up, Mr. Scott.”

\---------------------------------------------

Jim barely registers the familiar white-on-chrome of the transporter room materializing around them before Bones is pushing him onto an antigrav stretcher and running a tricorder all over him. Beside him, he sees Christine Chapel attempting to do the same to the boy.

Who promptly scrambles away to crouch behind a console, teeth bared, fists raised.

“What are you doing? Don’t you dare touch me!” His high voice rings in the startled silence like a mournful bell.

Christine steps forward slowly, raising her arms. “I’m sorry to startle you, little one. I’m Nurse Chapel, but you can call me Christine.” She gives him a friendly wink, a small smile stretching her soft, kind face. She’s been trained to work with panicked trauma patients, and she calls on all of it now.

The boy doesn’t relax completely, but he does lower his fists. Spock steps up in front of him, speaking with the slow, gentle tone he has used with the boy the whole time.

“James, Nurse Chapel will take you to sickbay and check you for injuries. It is a routine checkup, nothing more. You have trusted me thus far, and for this you have my gratitude. Trust me further in this, that that no individual aboard this vessel will harm you.”

Something shutters in the boy’s eyes, but he does come out from behind the console.

“All right, but don’t think you’re going to hover me on that thing. I’ll walk on my own.”

And despite the sagging weariness evident in his every step, he keeps his back rigid and follows Nurse Chapel, making sure that Spock is following close behind. And so it is that, when the boy finally collapses with exhaustion in the last corridor before Sickbay, Spock catches him before he can hit the ground, lifting him up and cradling him in his arms over his mumbled protests, ignoring the stretcher until he lays him down, ever so gently, on an empty bed. Then Dr. McCoy is there with a hypo, and the boy is unconscious within seconds.

Spock turns to his Captain, who is sitting on the edge of a biobed, staring at the sleeping boy.

“Dr. McCoy. Has the Captain been harmed by his encounter with the archway?”

“Miracle of bloody miracles, there doesn’t seem to be a thing wrong with him apart from slight shock.” The doctor’s voice, through loud and abrasive as ever, is trembling. The reason becomes evident as he continues.

“I was watching, Spock. I was watching through your helmet feed.” He turns to Jim. “I saw you enter that portal, I saw the light blaze. I thought you were being consumed, Jim. I thought you’d finally got yourself into something you couldn’t wrangle your way out of. But bloody hell, there’s not a scratch on you.”

Jim is slowly shaking his head. Dr. McCoy turns to the boy.

“Instead, there’s… this. I’m going to call him boy until I can wrap my head around whatever the hell just happened and whatever he really is. Which, incidentally, I’d like someone to explain to me.”

“I have a theory, Doctor, nothing more. I will enlighten you when I am more certain myself.”

“Humph. You better make sure you do that. As for you, Jim, bed rest for twelve hours, you can be back on the bridge for the afternoon of alpha shift, all right? I nearly had a heart attack, watching you today, so don’t you utter one fucking word of complaint.”

When Jim says nothing, just continues to stare at the boy, the doctor gives him an uneasy look, filled with compassion, then shoots a meaningful glance at Spock. He grabs his tricorder and makes his way to the boy’s bedside, closing the curtains around him.

Spock looks at Jim.

Jim stares at the closed curtains.

“Captain.”

There is no response.

“Jim.”

“…Spock.”

“Jim, I would be deeply grateful if you shared with me what you are thinking at this moment.”

Jim closes his eyes, lets his breath out in a rush. He has to focus on Spock. He needs an anchor in the maelstrom of _fear, guilt, shock, hurt, anger, ANGER at having to remember all he has tried so hard to move on from, all he thought he had succeeded in burying only for it to be thrust back to the forefront of his head, cruelly mocking his conceited pig-headedness in ever allowing himself to believe for an instant that he could, somehow, have left it all behind for good… Spock Spock Spock. Spock._ Spock, right here in front of him, radiating warmth, all Vulcan calmness and solidity.

The words come rushing out. He has to let Spock know. “It’s me, Spock. It’s not another universe, an alternate dimension or whatever like the mirror-verse or where the other Spock came from. I can… remember myself like this.” He swallows. “On Tarsus.”

And Spock’s world crumbles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I am officially in this for good. My heart is pumping and my breath is coming short. I haven't enjoyed writing a fanfic so much in YEARS. Shittake mushrooms. Please let me know what you think. Reviews make my heart soar.


	3. Chapter 3

A red haze descends over Spock’s vision. He keeps his voice level in a desperate attempt at control.

“I did not know you were on Tarsus IV during the famine and subsequent massacre.”

Jim snorts. “Yeah, I was only ten when it happened. Frank didn’t give two shits about me after mom died, he shipped me off to the first orphanage that would have me. Sam was smart enough to run away. It was just me.” He swallows. His mouth is so dry that it hurts his throat. “Of course, no one could have known what was going to happen. Shit luck, eh?”

Spock ignores this. “It is not in your Starfleet record.”

“Figured you’d know my record back to front, wouldn’t you Spock?" His laugh is chilling in its complete lack of humor. "No, I never told them. Kodos is dead, what does it matter?”

Spock doesn’t miss the odd familiarity with which he says the name. The infamous general has gone down in history as “the Tyrant of Tarsus”. His name is all but forgotten.

“You met the Tyrant of Tarsus, then, Captain?”

Jim stiffens. “No.”

“You are lying.” His voice sounds cold and far away to his own ears. He can tell when Jim is lying. He has always been able to tell.

Jim startles defensively at his tone. “What the fuck?” He tries to stand, and stumbles over his own feet. Spock’s arm darts out to steady him, but Jim viciously slaps it away.

Spock takes a step back. And stands stiffly, woodenly, the angular lines of his face harsh and forbidding.

“What the hell do you mean by that, Commander?” The words fail to mask the growing panic, his fear of what Spock will think, his fear that he will lose control, the terror that Spock will see too much, will see what Jim has tried to hide for the past fifteen years, from Pike, from Bones, and _oh god Spock can’t find out he can’t, he’ll leave like everyone else, and why is he looking like that –_

“What the hell do you want to hear, Spock? I was on the planet, everyone was starving and dying, I survived for a while because Kodos took a liking to me, visited me at the orphanage and then took me to live with him at his fucking palace until I ran away, I couldn’t stand to be there once I knew what he was doing, how many he was killing… he thought of himself as God, you know that, Spock? Do you fucking know that?”

And Jim doesn’t know what he’s saying, all he knows is that he’s blabbering, crying out for help while keeping the real secret buried deep inside himself, the thing he can’t tell anyone, _ever_ –

“And there was no food, death all around, bodies decaying and not even any fucking vultures because they’d all been eaten. I ate grass, Spock. I found a rat hole and stayed by it for nearly a month, killing the rats one by one till they were all dead. There were six of them. I named them, you know? They were the only living creatures I saw for almost a month. I fucking remember the names of the rats that I killed and ate. Want me to list them? Would that make you happy?”

He’s hyperventilating, and he feels a surge of irrational panic creeping up on him, as it always does, marking the start of the attacks he’s managed to avoid for so long now.

“Tarla. She was the sixth rat. I remember her the most. I ate her last. I made her last for days.”

And he’s focusing on this, this secondary source of self-disgust, using it to block the memories of Kodos – no, no don’t think his name, don’t tell Spock – and he can’t breathe, the air just won’t reach his lungs. He’s aware of Spock calling for Bones somewhere at the edge of his vision, so far removed from his personal hell that he might not exist at all, and then Bones is there and he’s stabbing Jim with a hypo, and the last thing he feels before he passes out are Spock’s warm, warm arms and solid chest, catching him, cradling him, holding him.

\-------------------------------------------

When Jim faints in his arms, all Spock wants to do is crush him and lock him up and keep him _safe, all I ask is that he be safe_. Anger, rarely felt, usually easily quelled behind the safety of Vulcan shields, has become all-encompassing, tinting the edges of his vision a hazy red.

_I must meditate. I can provide assistance to no one in this state._

He lowers Jim onto the bed with tortured gentleness, just as he had done with young James a few minutes – or was it lifetimes? – ago. For a brief instant, he looks down at his Captain’s smooth face, unworn and open in sleep as though denying everything he just told Spock, rendering such horror impossible. The he turns on his heel and walks rapidly out of the medbay, ignoring whatever Dr. McCoy is trying to tell him.

As he strides evenly though the corridors of the Enterprise towards his quarters, he is aware of the curious looks darted towards him by the crew, all wondering, no doubt, about the strange boy appearing through the archway and calling himself James Kirk. The rumors are no doubt spreading like a pack of unconstrained rabid sehlats. Spock knows he is being uncharitable, but his normally carefully regulated thoughts are refusing to cooperate. No one dares to question him.

Spock reaches the safety of his rooms and folds himself gracefully onto the meditation mat, resisting the urge to collapse onto it. His control over his body is the last thread holding him together. He closes his eyes and begins the familiar Vulcan meditation chant, a relaxation tool he had learned as a child but has not had to use in over a decade.

_Talak n’var sake’l’ya mi-nohr ut-if-fee, wo ni zih-a’hr talak n’var sake’l’ya mi-nohr…_

_My mind is a lake and deep within there is truth and peace, and with the logic of my thoughts I calm the water and sink deep into my mind that is a lake and deep within there is truth and peace..._

As he deepens his trance, sinking with easy familiarity through the first four of the eight levels of the meditation exercises, his roiling thoughts calm and his emotions fade away to be replaced by a rich, wholesome clarity. He finds himself faced with the mirror at the bottom of the lake that is the sixth level of the trance, the self-reflection he has greeted every day for the past twenty years. It is a sight that he must accept before being able to enter the deep recesses of the seventh and eighth levels, where the cocooning warmth of his psi-energy waits to welcome him.

The sight has changed. The shock is nearly enough to yank his mind painfully out of the trance, and it is only the experience of years of rigorous training that allows him to maintain a tenuous control.

In his life, the mirror has only changed three times. First, when he had been bonded with T’Pring at the age of seven, and had reached this level for the first time with the help of her fully ordered mind, he saw a line dividing his face into human and Vulcan, and a golden glow resolving into a three thin threads reaching out of the frame, connecting him to his mother, father, and T’Pring.  Second, when he had finally embraced his half-human heritage after being accepted to the Starfleet science program, the line dividing his face had disappeared, T’Pring’s golden thread had dimmed almost to gray, and in the reflection, his brow had scrunched in curiosity while his countenance assumed an air of command.

The most recent change occurred only eighteen months ago, when he had lost his mother, Vulcan, and T’Pring in a blow so devastating that his controls had never fully recovered. Two threads had vanished, and only a faint one remained connecting him to his father. Lines of grief had appeared in his brow, and the golden glow had become shot through with splotches of heavy, ugly fog, almost completely obscuring the gold.

And now. Another change so soon… it is unthinkable.

And yet he has felt it, in the inability of his shields to keep his anger at bay, and in the upheaval that has wracked his soul since the moment young James appeared through the archway and declared his name. Still, to see it reflected so clearly is a shock. But a relief as well, to know that in the Vulcan way, he is unable to lie to himself.

The grey fog has vanished; the glow surrounding his face is stronger than it had ever been. It radiates out, high into the water above him, coalescing into a rope, thin and fragile, but brighter than ever, reaching further than his eye can see. Even if it hadn’t been whispering to him, he would have known where it led. There is only one place it _can_ lead. The glow is the color of his hair, and the turquoise clarity of the water is the color of his eyes.

_Jim._

It is as if the pain of seeing Jim so broken has finally forced into stark relief his growing respect, admiration and affection for the Captain, wreaking a change in his spirit so profound that it is impossible to ignore.

_Jim, in all your forms, each and every part of you, your past and your present. I cherish thee._

Spock drinks in the sight, sating his thirst as only a desert-dwelling Vulcan can. But with it comes a sudden shard of fear so sharp and piercing that he wrenches himself out of the trance and leaps to his feet, the fluid grace of the motion marred by a gasp.

_I cannot speak of this to him. How can he return my regard? He has given no sign._

And then – _He is already so burdened, filled with a pain of whose very existence I had not the slightest conception. He hid it so well, for so long. I will not burden him further, not now when he has need of my support. I must help him, not add to his troubles._

_And the little one. His need of me is perhaps even greater._

With great effort, heightened by his inability to enter into the deepest levels and access his psi-energy, Spock raises his shields, letting nothing through but the necessity of providing all the support of which he is able. He crosses over to his terminal, and calls up the archives of the Vulcan Science Academy. The logical first step is to learn as much about the archway as possible. There is no time to be lost. Jim – and James – will soon awake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmmmmf. I wanted to cover some more ground this chapter. I have a conversation with Jim all mapped out, but then Spock's meditation ran away with me. I'm not entirely happy with it. It was quite hard to write, but insisted on being written. I'm letting the story go where it will.  
> I promise there will be a lovely angsty conversation coming up very soon. In fact I have three perfect angsty conversations planned and shorthanded and begging to be written - Spock-Jim, Spock-James, and Jim-James heeheehee - but I'm very tired. 
> 
> Anyway, please let me know what you think. If you hate it, please do stick around, the next chapters will be quite fascinating I assure you.


	4. Chapter 4

Typing  _kar-lin-mesch_ into the VSA archive search function, Spock reads:

_Kar-lin-mesch (or Mesche, Kar-lin):_

_A mythical artifact attributed to the extinct “Kursilian” race, originating on planet “Kursilia” (Federation Standard ID: Bastion-droid Bd-4583x, Pseudo-Panaman Rings, Rigelian Cluster, Beta Quadrant), referred to multiple times in the “Kursil Tanh”, or “Original Teachings of Kursil”, discovered on stardate 1421.19 by VSA exploratory mission VSS-K’dular, subsequently translated into High Vulcan by VSA historical xenolinguist T’Nara, daughter of T’Lyng, and thence into Standard by Sir Tynmet Wong of Terra._

_Directly translated into “portal of pain”, the kar-lin-mesch supposedly resembles “an archway exceedingly high, constructed entirely of pounded black kursillarite of dimensions most slender”, with the power to “revert the mind and body of any who enter it to their time of greatest hardship”, or, as interpreted by Sir Wong, “the worst moment of their personal past”. The Kursil Tanh asserts that the kar-lin-mesch is not to be found on Kursilia, but is instead hidden away on an unknown planet. No trace of any such artifact has been found to date._

_The Kursilian race is known to have been powerful in both the telepathic and organo-mutational arts, with a psi-rating of 11 (as compared to Betazoid 5 and Vulcan 8, among others) and an organo-modification rating of 7 (surpassed only by the Mont-Valuzians with a rating of 9 due to their species-shifting abilities). The only Kursilian artifact to ever have been recovered is the “san-karill” staff, once housed at the Vulcan Museum of Ancient Xeno-History but lost in the destruction of Old Vulcan on stardate 2258.42. The staff possessed significant psi-enhancing properties and was believed to be able to regenerate neural pathways in treatment for psi-class brain damage, though research was still underway when the artifact was lost. This evidence suggests that it is indeed possible for the Kursilians to have developed the kar-lin-mesch, but present-day Federation science and technology researches are far from understanding the underlying principles that must lie behind such a device._

_The purpose of the device, should it exist, also remains unknown. It has been conjectured that it was an early attempt at immortality, designed to search for a psi-anchor strong enough to revert a body to a younger state while leaving the consciousness untouched. It is perhaps unsurprising that the only memories powerful enough to do so were those of great despair and trauma, which would force the psi-anchors back in time with the organo-mutation of the body. Such devastating side-effects would provide ample reason for the abandonment of the archway on a deserted planet._

_See also: Kursilia, Kursilian race, san-karill staff, organo-mutational classifications, psi-anchors._

 

It takes Spock bare seconds to scan the standard archive entry and conclude that the description fits the archway perfectly.

_A portal of pain..._

Any other circumstances would have Spock utterly thrilled – professionally delighted – at the chance to study a long-lost artifact, so powerful as to have entered the realms of myth, functioning on psi-energy that the Federation has tried for decades to harness without success.

At present, he would like nothing more than to see it forever destroyed.

As to their being _two_ James Kirks – Spock’s best theory is that the archway had been slowly gathering psi-energy from the various plant and animal organisms on the planet for millennia, leading to the golden glow and deep psi-attraction that had overwhelmed the humans, forcing them into running towards it. This same power was likely enough for the archway to finish its task and create young James even after Spock had removed its primary source of energy by pulling out the Captain.

In fact, upon further reflection, Spock believes that the archway has been irreparably damaged, forced to consume its own energy in this last, heinous act. The surge of satisfaction at this is worrisome, as well as utterly against all the principles of scientific discovery he lives by. He does not care.

He is scrolling through the suggested entries in search of any further references to the kar-lin-mesch when his comm bleeps.

“Sickbay to Commander Spock.”

“Spock here.”

“Jim’s going to be awake in ten minutes, Spock – the sedative is wearing off. You told me to let you know.”

“Indeed. Thank you, Doctor. I am on my way.”

\--------------------------------------------------------------------

When Jim blearily opens his eyes, for a few moments he doesn’t remember why he’s in sickbay. He sees Spock standing at the foot of the bed, hands clasped behind his back in parade rest. He feels calm, warm and rested. Though he’d never tell Bones, the damn hypos work every time.

Then he looks over to the biobed next to him, and sees his younger self. And the memories come crashing back.

Spock sees the look in his Captain’s eyes change from his habitual warm, open expression to the frenzied, drawn eyes of a hunted animal. It should not be physically possible for a blue to darken so much. It makes him want to break things.

But what Jim needs right now is calm, and logic. These things Spock is eminently qualified to provide.

“Sir. I have ascertained several facts about the archway we encountered on the surface of the planet.”

Jim allows the familiar, level cadence of his First’s voice to wash over him, to guide him back into Captain mode.

“Report, Mr. Spock.”

Dr. McCoy steps over from the biobed where he has been examining young James, face troubled. “I’ve got to hear this. Any kind of logical explanation, Mr. Spock?”

Spock straightens and nods at the doctor.

“Indeed, Captain, Doctor. The archway is a remnant of the now-extinct Kursilian civilization that once colonized a large section of the Pseudo-Panaman rings in the Rigelian cluster, only five light-years from our current position. It is called a “kar-lin-mesch”, or “portal of pain” in Standard, and is only known to exist through oblique references in the Kursilian book of teachings translated by both Vulcan and Terran xeno-historians. An exhaustive search was carried out but the portal was never found, and thus it has faded into myth. I am, however, 99.973 percent certain that this is indeed the archway we encountered.”

Jim watches as Spock takes a breath and, impossibly, straightens further.

“Sir, the kar-lin-mesch is likely a failed attempt at an immortality device. While the archway does succeed in sending the user’s body back to a  younger state, it is unable to preserve the present-day psi-anchors of the consciousness, instead using the most-powerful psi-anchors that ever existed at any time in the user’s mind, which are, by necessity, the most traumatic.”

Dr. McCoy’s mouth is opening and closing like a fish. “What you’re saying makes no sense, Spock! You mean it’s not an alternate version of Jim, but… a _past_ version?” The pain in his voice is impossible to miss, and Jim visibly flinches.

The doctor sees it, and something in his chest crumbles. “But, but that makes no sense!” He wants to scream, to yell at Jim for never telling him, for never so much as hinting that he’d been anything like the wreck of a boy drugged into unconsciousness on the biobed behind him.

But he is, first and foremost, a supremely trained medical professional. This is definitely not the time. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t want answers, or that he can’t hope that there’s somehow been a mistake.

“Then why is Jim still here, Spock? If it’s an immortality device, surely the real Jim wouldn’t still be here!”

Spock is a little taken aback by the astuteness of this question. But, though irritating, Dr. McCoy has never been unintelligent.

“It is my theory that the archway had been feeding on the psi-energy of the plant and animal organisms on the planet while sitting untouched for the past millennia, thus accumulating enough attractive power to not only attract anyone close to it, but to fulfill its task even after I forcibly removed the Captain from its core. I also believe that it has destroyed itself in the process, and is no longer functional.”

The Captain and the doctor are both silent, attempting to process this undeniably bizarre concept. Spock cannot stop himself from studying Jim, observing the tense way he holds his shoulders as they try to curve inwards against his will, and the wariness in his eyes behind the desperate cloak of command.

“You saved my life, Spock. Again. I can’t thank you enough.”

Dr. McCoy squeezes his eyes shut as if he never plans on opening them again. He’s talking fast – “I can’t do this; I need a moment, Spock take care of Jim” – and he’s rushing into his office and slamming the door.

Spock does not blame him. The Captain’s words have sent a shiver through his own chest, and he is suddenly very aware that, unlike full Vulcans, he is in fact in possession of a very functional set of tear ducts.

 _Jim, ashayam, do not thank me. Not like this, not_ now _. I should have protected you. I should have prevented this from ever happening._

_Your life is infinitely precious. I would give mine for yours, always._

Throat constricting, Spock cannot speak.

\------------------------------------------------------

Jim feels the familiar panic building up as Bones rushes into his office and Spock continues to stare at him, face carved from stone. He knows it’s irrational, that Bones isn’t really running away, that Spock doesn’t mean to look the way he did when he strangled Jim on the bridge, but it doesn’t stop his breath from coming harsh and short.

_Bones knows too, now. They both know and they’re both here and they don’t even know the worst of it and already they are going to fucking leave, and I should let them because honestly why shouldn’t they, why should they have to put up with more of my shit than they have already –_

The stress monitor is on his biobed is beeping frantically, and Bones is running out of his office carrying a hypospray, yelling “Calm down, Jim, for god’s sake – ” and Jim is scrambling away –

And Spock is still standing there as though frozen and Jim can’t bear it, he can’t fucking bear it –

And he’s off the biobed, crouching in a corner, and the scenes are shifting in his skull and he has no idea what’s going on, where he is, all he knows is that he’s felt this panic before and he knows what’s coming, what has to come –

He sees the hypospray come closer and closer and he has no idea who’s carrying it but he knows he can’t let it touch him, he’s whimpering, low frightened, feral – 

His fist snaps out and he’s punched the hypospray-carrier flat in the face and grabbed it from his slackening fingers and plunged it into his neck –

And he’s turning away, needing to run, to flee, to get out of here –

And he finds himself locked in a vise, crushed to a warm, solid chest, fingertips at his temples, and he _sinks_ –

“Jim. Ashayam. Shhh. Be calm. I am here. No one will hurt you. I am here, ashayam.” 

It’s soft, warm, cocooning, and _oh so good, so safe._ He doesn’t know how long the warm voice in his head has been murmuring to him before he comes back to himself, slowly.

“S – Spock?”

The warm feeling briefly intensifies before gradually fading away. Jim tries to hang on, to look around himself, but he just catches a glimpse of a sunny, pebbled beach at the edge of a lake of jeweled turquoise, before the scene dissolves and he’s back in the medbay. Pressed into his first officer’s chest, his fingertips in his hair, massaging gently. 

Jim _melts._ He’s pretty sure he stays like that for well over a minute, eyes closed, Spock just _holding_ him, knowing what to do for him, always.

And then he opens his eyes and sees Bones lying unconscious on the floor, hypospray sticking out from his neck at an unnatural angle. He’s trying to push away from Spock, unable to contain his horror at what he just did to his best friend – but Spock is holding onto his upper arms, forcing his upper body to still, and speaking with a profound intensity.

“The doctor will understand, Jim. Do not unnecessarily add this to your list of regrets.” Spock’s deep chocolate eyes are burning into Jim’s, and he is powerless to resist.

Keeping his grip on one of Jim’s arms, Spock bends down and removes the hypo from Dr. McCoy’s neck, laying it gently on a side table. Pulling Jim with him, he walks to the wall and removes an antigrav stretcher from its hanging pin, directing it towards the doctor and watching as it lifts and hovers him to a nearby biobed. Then, ever so gently, he pulls Jim back to his own bed, and pulls back the covers.

“Rest, Captain. I will call Nurse Chapel to tend to Dr. McCoy, although I am certain he will awaken very soon.”

Jim cannot meet his eyes.

Spock clears his throat.

“As a matter of fact, Captain, I do believe it is good for the doctor to have been, as you say, ‘stabbed by one of his own damn hypos’. He knows it now to not have been an idle threat.”

Jim’s eyes fly to his in sheer incredulity.

“Spock.”

“Captain.”

“Did you just… try to make a joke?”

“I said nothing I do not believe to be true.” Spock allows the corners of his lips to quirk the tiniest bit upwards.

It is worth it, it is worth every bit of his useless stoic Vulcan pride to see the smile that splits his Captain’s face. It is blinding. That this man can still smile so – that he has ever been able to smile so – fills Spock with wonder, and something deeper he will not name right now. _I cherish him._

“Shit, Spock. What would I ever do without you?” And then, almost shyly – “Why do you even bother with me?”

Spock knows the answer deep in his bones.

“I cannot do otherwise, Captain.” And it’s so far from enough, so much less than what he wants to say to this man, his Captain, his friend, that he can’t stop himself from adding –

“You are my friend.”

And Jim’s eyes light up. He opens his mouth, and closes it again abruptly.

Then they are both looking away, the intensity too much after the scene with Dr. McCoy, the mind-meld, the conversation. It is Jim who speaks first, looking over at little James, sleeping deeply, tousled hair barely visible over a mound of blankets.

“Spock… I don’t know what to do with him. Deep down I just want him to disappear, and then I look at him and feel like a monster for even thinking that. He’s me… but he’s not, you know? I mean, I’m me, and I’m right here. Why does he even have to exist? Why does he have to remind me – ” his mouth flattens into a line of pain.

“Captain…”

“Like, I get so angry, I can’t deal with my shit twice over, Spock, it’ll break me, and it’ll break him, and I can’t bear to fucking look at him – ” he cuts himself off, abruptly. “I know I’m disappointing you.”

And Spock is speaking the absolute, untouchable truth when he says – “Jim. You can never disappoint me. You will do the right thing, as you always do.”

A whisper, broken. “What if I don’t know what that is anymore?”

“Then we will find it together.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like this chapter! I really enjoyed writing the kar-lin-mesch description, oddly enough, though probably the writing is nowhere near Vulcan enough for the VSA archives xD  
> This was a fun chapter to write, I'm loving where it's all going, and sure it's going slower than I thought, but hey, that means more for me to write and you to read, right?  
> Please do let me know what you think, reviews are what motivates me on lazy days to get off my bum and bang out some dialogue... which is always a bit tough for me to write, I tend to get bogged down in descriptive passages that I've really been trying to avoid in this fic. Dialogue is hard!!!!  
> Love you all xoxoxox


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm back. I'm so sorry for the long hiatus. To be honest, I wasn't sure if I was going to continue, or write any more fanfiction at all. It was sucking time. But I had a little nudge and I logged in and fell in love with this story again and just had to continue! I promise it will be complete before I stop this time. If you're still here, thanks for staying! xoxoxoxo

Alpha shift begins and Spock returns to the bridge, leaving the Captain falling over himself apologizing to Dr. McCoy and the Doctor grumbling back at him as if nothing had happened at all. Whatever his other faults, Spock feels a deep kinship to Dr. McCoy in this moment. His loyalty to Jim matches Spock’s own.

The brief moment of peace shatters when the turbolift drops him on the bridge.

“Commander! How is the keptin?”

“What was that portal thing _doing_ , Commander?”

“What happened down there, Sir? Who’s the boy?”

 “Spock! Are you all right?”

Spock holds up a hand and turns to Nyota. “Lieutenant, as you have not reported to Sickbay, may I understand that you are not suffering any undue effects due to your exposure to the archway?”

He feels a measure of worry. Nyota is a dear acquaintance. Had the captain’s situation not been so dire, he would have enquired after her health sooner.

“No, Commander. I’m perfectly fine. The symptoms vanished the moment you pulled the Captain out and the archway stopped glowing.”

“I am gratified, Lieutenant.”

He allows his voice to gentle, and Nyota smiles at him.

Spock turns to address the bridge. All eyes are staring up at him with avid curiosity, and he can feel the emotions swirling against his shields. Curiosity, fear, confusion, excitement.

“The archway encountered by the away team on the surface mission appears to be a remnant of an extinct civilization. I am uncertain as to its exact purpose, beyond its obvious – production – of a younger version of the captain. It is likewise uncertain whether this young James Kirk has been created or pulled from another dimension, and what relation, if any, he bears to the original. The archway caused the Captain and the members of the away team to suffer an overwhelming emotional drain, myself excluded due my psi-shielding capabilities, and the Captain most of all due to his maximal proximity. He is currently recovering in Sickbay and will provide you with further information at his discretion.”

“When will the keptin be back on duty, Sir?”

Spock feels a surge of protective instinct. The Captain’s mental health is a deeply private matter, not to be shared with the bridge crew, no matter how loyal.

“That is under the purview of Dr. McCoy, Ensign, but I am certain that he will make a full physical recovery.”

“What about the boy, Commander? Will we send him back?” This from Nyota, her musical voice thick with care and worry. She has always loved children.

Sulu breaks in. “I don’t think we _should_ send him back, you know, wherever he came from. He looks like death warmed over. A _stick_. He could barely walk!”

“But, what if he wants to go back?” Chekov, nervous.

“So what? He’s here now, we have some responsibility. Seriously, wherever he came from, it’s treated him like shit – sorry, Commander – and we ought to protect him.”

“And what will we do with him? He has no family here! We can’t randomly keep him on the Enterprise.”

“Space kidnappers.” Sulu makes a ninja motion.

“Ha ha.”

“No seriously, he’s the Captain isn’t he? Who has more of a right to be aboard than the Captain?”

Chekov opens his mouth and closes it.

“That is so strange… Is he really the keptin, do you think?”

Sulu shrugs, eyes wide. Nyota ignores them. Lieutenant Yalmers chimes in from the science station – 

“What if his family is waiting for him on the other side of the portal?”

“They obviously didn’t care for him.” Sulu again, stubborn.

“We’ll have to ask him what he wants.”

“He’s probably so confused, poor thing!”

“Hah! You can’t call James Kirk a poor thing, no matter what he looks like.”

“Ugh, that is _so_ confusing.”

“What if our Captain suddenly disappears or something?”

“ _Or_ , what if the little James dies? Does the keptin die too?”

“Don’t ask me, Pavel. I never even understood how there’s an Ambassador Spock wandering around.”

“Both our Captain and Commander have parallel counterparts! What are the chances of that?”

“This crew is insane.”

“The boy will fit right in. I can’t believe you want to send him back.”

“When did I say that? I just asked if it was _possible_!” says Nyota, indignant.

Spock watches the bridge crew dissolve around him, bickering over a boy most of them have only seen for a few seconds on a holoscreen.

“Well, Commander? _Is_ it possible to send him back?”

Spock hesitates. All his research so far has indicated that the boy was ‘created’, not extracted from some other location. But to share this with the bridge crew would make it clear beyond question that the boy is, in fact, a past version of the James Kirk of this universe. It is unacceptable for this to become common knowledge.

“I am uncertain, Ensign. I believe the archway only achieved the level of power it displayed by accumulating psi-energy over millennia, and furthermore, that it has now consumed itself. I do not believe it will be possible for us to activate it again, and almost certainly not within a timescale of relevance.”

All this is true, and Spock is satisfied with this answer.

Sulu opens his mouth uncertainly, and Spock holds up a hand. “I must ask that any further discussion of the subject be postponed until after alpha shift, which has already been sufficiently disturbed. Lieutenant Yalmers, I believe you have an asteroid-profiling report that requires my attention?”

He settles in the Captain’s chair as Yalmers steps up and holds out a padd, inwardly gratified at the respectful nods of the bridge crew as they turn back to their stations. They are loyal, and professional. Captain Kirk has often said, both publicly and in private to Spock, that he feels lucky to have such a crew.

It is not the first time that Spock has felt the same.

\-------------------------------------------------------

The end of alpha shift finds Spock striding towards Sickbay. He meets Doctor McCoy, who is just stepping out into the hallway.

When he sees Spock, the doctor exhales audibly.

“Commander. I need to talk to you. Come with me.” He turns abruptly and yanks open the side door leading to his office. His movements match his voice, jerky and clipped with tension.

Though he is used to seeing the doctor high-strung and worried, Spock cannot stop the frisson of uncertainty that travels slowly up his spine.

“What is it, doctor?”

McCoy gestures for Spock to sit, and thuds into the padded chair behind his desk, sitting for half a second before springing up and pacing around behind it, gripping the back. His knuckles are white.

 “So.” The doctor’s voice catches, and he swallows and starts again. “So. It’s like this. I’m just going to go out and say it, okay, Spock.”

Spock inclines his head.

“The boy? Little James? His injuries…”

Spock waits, patient.

“His injuries – god, Spock, he’s been raped.”

Spock isn’t aware that he is standing, that he stood up so fast his chair toppled to the ground behind him, that his hands are clenched into fists, his psi-energy roiling through the room and battering McCoy, who squeezes his eyes shut against the sudden, sharp migraine assaulting his skull. The sunny, pebbled shore on the edge of a turquoise-dipped lake – it’s gone, overcome by a roiling, seething mass of foaming grey-black waves, consuming, subsuming any remnant of shore.

He is aware of nothing, under the rush of denial disguised as rage disguised as chaos.

The moment stretches, like an elastic thread stretched taut and impossibly, impossibly thin, fragile and about to break, but even the breaking would bring some relief from the unbearable tension and so it does not break, he is not even allowed that.

Time passes.

It is his Vulcan core, the epicenter of his mind that keeps his psi-layers in order, which helps Spock now. Through no conscious decision of his own, his mind fights to restore order, stilling the ocean from its depths, layer by layer, until the crashing waves die down to ripples that percolate into the sand, until all is calm once more.

Spock opens his eyes to see the doctor slumped in his chair, leaning heavily to the side, hair sticking up as if he tried to pull it out with his fingers.

“For fuck’s sake, Spock.”

For a moment, there is silence. Then Spock spins around, rights his chair, and sits down, back straight and palms pressed flat against his thighs.

“I – apologize, doctor. For my loss of control.”

“My head is killing me. But I deserve it, you know? I deserve worse. Because I never even guessed. I never even thought to maybe think about a guess.”

“It is no comfort, certainly, but neither did I.”

“And we’re sure, absolutely sure, that this is a past version of Jim?”

Spock closes his eyes.

“Yes.” It is too much to bear.

And then, because he has to know more – “How did you find out?”

The doctor’s words come fast now, fast and desperate.

“Routine physical check-up, you know. I knocked him out because he was thrashing about and I wanted to make sure the portal thing hadn’t completely mucked him up, and heaven knows his body needed the rest. Scans came back flashing so red you’d be surprised he could even walk. History of broken bones – nose, collarbone. Wrist, three times. Shin, once. Malnourished like you wouldn’t believe. And -”

His voice breaks.

Spock, urgent now, “And? And what, doctor?”

“Anal injuries. Internal bleeding, mostly badly healed, and muscle trauma to the anal passage and prostate. I needed to use a muscle regenerator, Spock.”

There is silence, because there is nothing to say. Self-recrimination is not something that Spock normally indulges in, confident in the rationality of his past decisions regardless of their ultimate outcome. He knows the guilt he is experiencing has no basis in logic. He was not there, and there was no way for him to know.

But he cannot help himself from thinking that he should have.

He has known Jim for two years. He has served with him, befriended him, saved his life countless times.

_I should have known._

And then, suddenly – _How much worse must it be for Doctor McCoy? He, who has known Jim since before the Academy?_

McCoy’s eyes are open, flat, haunted. He echoes Spock’s thoughts. “Dammit, Spock, I should have known. I should have fucking guessed.”

 So Spock speaks first. “Doctor McCoy. Leonard. It is my belief that you are experiencing guilt, as I am. I can only say what I know to be true. It is not your fault, and you were not there, and you could not have known.”

McCoy closes his eyes. When he opens them again, they are slightly clearer.

“Wow, Spock, I didn’t know you had it in you. Sounded for a minute as though you actually had feelings.”

On any other occasion Spock would scoff at this, but at the moment he is gratified to see the doctor’s small smile. There is nowhere to go but forward, and both his and McCoy’s support will be of paramount importance in the recovery the Captain and his young counterpart.

“I would point out that the Captain has overcome this before, when the memories were fresh and he had neither the support nor respect that he now commands. He is strong, and so must the young one be. I will not despair, Doctor, and I urge you to do the same.”

McCoy peers at him closely.

“Vulcan logic at its best. You are right, of course, Spock. And I really needed to hear that. But, are you sure you’re okay? Ten minutes ago your psi-energy was blowing my brains out.”

How to explain the seething, roiling knot of anger, compressed to a tiny ball at the bottom of the lake, invisible from the calm shore? Spock prefers not to try.

“I am adequate, Doctor.”

McCoy snorts. “If you say so.” He yawns.

“Perhaps some rest is advisable. What is the current status of the Captain?”

“Well, I’ve released him to quarters. Nothing physically wrong with him and though it’s against regulations, now’s definitely not the time to do a psych eval. So I’ve ordered him off duty for forty-eight hours, but after that it’s either going back to work or sending an emotional compromise report to Starfleet. I’m guessing Jim would like to avoid that.”

Spock agrees. “Indeed, Doctor. I find this to be a most appropriate course of action. The additional time for reflection will no doubt prove beneficial. A decision should rarely be made in haste.”

A wry grin twists the doctor’s mouth, though Spock can tell he is pleased.

“Why, Commander, I’m so glad you approve. After all, my medical expertise has no value without the weight of your good opinion behind it.”

“I fail to see the point of your statement.”

“Oh, you fail to ‘see the point’, eh, Spock? A perfect use of idiom, if I may say so. Always knew you were lying about not understanding them.”

“Vulcans do not lie, doctor. If my understanding of human idiom has improved, it is through diligent study and increased exposure.”

“Oh ha ha. Yes, poor you, o ever-truthful Vulcan working so hard to understand our lowly human ways.”

Spock pauses, then says, deliberately, “You can say that again.”

The doctor huffs out a laugh, and if some of the lines of his face ease, then Spock tells himself that that wasn’t the objective of this little exchange.

“Well, I’m off for a meal and then bed. Jim said he’d rather eat alone in his quarters, and the little one is still asleep. I thought it best to keep him under for the night, get some nutrients in him through an IV tube. I wasn’t sure if he’d cooperate, otherwise.”

“I understand, Doctor. I would like to see him, if I may.”

“Sure, Spock, be my guest. He won’t be waking up tonight, so I’ll be back to check on him in the morning.”

“And if he should regain consciousness during the night?”

“Don’t worry, I’ve got an alarm next to him keyed to my padd. He so much as starts to open his eyes and Nurse Chapel will be in from the next room and I’ll be down from my quarters in under five minutes.”

“Very good, doctor.”

Spock nods and steps into Sickbay as the doctor walks away down the corridor, weariness evident in the hunch of his shoulders. Spock turns his attention to the darkened room, making out the outline of little James huddled under the blankets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I'm totally in the groove and I loved writing this chapter. I really wanted to write the conversation with little James but it's 2 am and I have a midterm tomorrow, so. I'm itching to write it though. See you all soon, hopefully! If you liked it, I'd love a review :)


	6. Chapter 6

 

Spock steps silently over to the biobed. Little James is hidden under a mound of blankets, curled tightly into himself, the outline of his figure painfully small against the regulation bedframe. His face is half-nestled in the pillow and the blankets are pulled up above his nose, leaving nothing visible but the shock of familiar, yellow-gold hair, tousled from sleep. Spock observes that it falls just the way Jim’s does – in individually defined tufts curling lightly in on themselves on the forehead, at the nape of the neck, caressing the rounded human ears; the dark bronze of the roots lightening to burnished gold at the tips. It could be his Captain sleeping there, silent and still, as Spock has so often seen him while waiting for him to wake up in Sickbay or when they share quarters during diplomatic missions.

The seething knot of anger nestled at the bottom of the lake in his mind contracts painfully, manifesting as an ache in his skull, a throbbing in his side. Spock closes his eyes, ruthlessly bringing his body’s responses back under control. It is perhaps less effective than he would have liked, and he feels the familiar twinge of insecurity at his half-Vulcan control. But it has long ceased to trouble him as it did when he was younger. It has been the Captain’s doing, this acceptance. Jim has, time and time again, forced Spock to realize that he is valued for exactly what he is, nothing more and nothing less.

Spock looks at the small lump of James on the bed and sees, blatantly, how Jim could understand him so well, could see what reassurance he needed from those close to him. Empathy is born of experience. Spock knows that self-recrimination is illogical, especially for something so entirely out of his control. And yet, he berates himself for not seeing sooner that the Captain, who gave of himself so unreservedly, could need this in return.

It is painful to think that Jim does not know that Spock has already given him everything of himself - respect, admiration, love; would give it ten times over. But there is no mystery behind Jim’s insecurity, not when the magnitude of his troubles is so vast. And if Spock cannot go back in time and fix it for his Captain, then he can certainly try and do so for his counterpart.

_Jim, in all your forms. I cherish thee._

He reaches out a hand to lightly rest atop little James’ head, the touch barely disturbing the boy’s gossamer hair. And knows, at once, that he is not asleep.

“James?” Spock’s voice is sharp. The doctor had assured him that the boy would be asleep until morning.

There is no answer, but Spock senses rather than observes the tension in the boy’s frame increase. He allows his voice to gentle into a low, smooth cadence.

“James. I know you are not asleep. If you would do me the honor of speaking with me, I would be grateful.”

A pause, and then the boy turns over, clutching the blanket in both hands just above his nose. His eyes are huge, wary and hopeful and very, very blue.

“You’re Spock, right?” The question is spoken with a deliberate belligerence, a mask for uncertainty and fear.

“Indeed, James. I am Commander Spock, the First Officer of the Enterprise.”

Something in Spock’s tone seems to reassure the boy, and he lowers the blanket to below his chin, though he still clutches it with both hands.

“That’s a pretty high rank, isn’t it? Why are you bothering with me?” And then, wary – “What are you going to do with me?”

“Yes. I am the second most senior individual in rank aboard this ship, after the Captain. I am, as you say, ‘bothering with you’, because I am also the Science Officer of the Enterprise, and as such am personally responsible for the outcomes of science-related exploratory landing parties. As to your immediate future, it is simply rest and recovery. I do not believe that we will be able to activate the archway to send you back, and as you have explicitly stated that you prefer to remain, alternative plans will be discussed after your recovery.”

Spock is almost grateful that the boy’s second question – _why are you bothering with me?_ – is nestled in between his other inquiries. How to explain, to one so young, what his future self has come to mean to Spock?

But James’ eyes are sharp, and calculating.

“That’s not all, is it? There’s something about my name that has all of you shocked. I don’t get how it’s even possible, but there’s another James Kirk here, isn’t there?” And then, suddenly aggressive – “Don’t deny it – I heard people talking! The doctor thinks I was asleep, but I know he was in this hospital place all day with me!”

This gives Spock pause. But the boy’s fingers are tightening around the top edge of the blanket and his eyes are shuttering fast – aware, perhaps, that he has revealed too much – and Spock knows that to prevaricate now would shatter whatever fragile trust they have so far managed to build.

“Before I address your query – note, I do not deny it – you will tell me how you are awake, and by your own account have been awake all along, when Doctor McCoy was certain that you were sedated.”

Though Spock’s tone remains gentle, James’ eyes widen at the stern words, and then, after a beat, his mouth twists into a smirk. For a moment, Spock is certain that he will refuse to answer, that he will challenge Spock’s right to demand anything of him at all. But when the boy speaks, it is in a rush, mocking and desperate.

“Hah! It was easy. Too easy. I just swapped the IV tubes when they hooked me up to both the nutrients and the sedative, and then that blonde nurse came over and took out the sedative tube instead.”

Spock steps closer and sees that the red sedative tube is in fact hooked up to the nutrient generator above the biobed, right next to the sedative dispenser. It is a clever scheme, and one which no one would think to double-check, since the commands require a doctor’s lock and personalized override, as does the alarm system monitoring his sleep patterns.

“And the medical override?” Spock cannot help himself from asking. It appears that the Captain’s excellent hacking skills were acquired very early in life. It is, even by Vulcan standards, impressive.

“Please. It’s a medical IV system. There might as well not’ve been a password at all. The alarm was especially easy. Just turn the sensor so it’s facing in on itself and it can’t detect a thing.” His high, childish voice holds pride, triumphant and defiant. He is throwing down a gauntlet in challenge to any who would underestimate him, and Spock is astounded.

“Your actions are impressive, the more so for one so young.”

James is plainly thrown by this response. His eyes search Spock’s warily, and Spock allows his to warm, crinkling ever so slightly at the corners. James is all too human, and no matter how ill-equipped Spock may be for the task, he will try and give him what he needs. They gaze at each other, the moment stretching, blue boring into brown.

It is James who looks away first, biting his lower lip, eyes flicking down and from side to side. Some of the tension seeps out of his shoulders, and Spock speaks again.

“I hope that you will come to feel safe aboard the Enterprise. The medical team here has nothing but your health in mind, and you would do well to allow them to care for you.”

“Maybe.” It is not a concession, but the belligerent tone is gone, and Spock counts it as progress.

“Are you comfortable, James?”

“…The bed’s nice, yeah.”

“Do you require sustenance?”

The boy’s head jerks up, so fast the crick in his neck is audible.

“You mean – food?” James’ voice is naked with longing, and Spock berates himself for not thinking of this sooner. Nutrient supplements are effective, but they do nothing to satisfy the cravings of the stomach.

Spock does not allow himself to think of the circumstances that would give the mere mention of food such power over the boy. They do not bear contemplation. Instead, he strides over to the replicator and keys in plomeek soup, and a light wholegrain bread. He has seen Jim choose plomeek over chicken broth enough times in Sickbay to know the flavor will appeal to the little one as well, and its nourishment exceeds that of everyday human foods.

As he carries the tray over to the biobed, James’ eyes follow the bread. It is the gaze of a starved animal, and as Spock sets the tray on the bedside table, his hand darts out to snatch the bread off the plate, clutching it to his chest, curling his shoulders in around it, bringing it to his mouth to tear off a chunk with his teeth, eyes darting up at to meet Spock’s in shame, and defiance, and then nothing more than pure, animal hunger.

And the lake in Spock’s mind is roiling, again, churned to boiling waves by the hot, pulsating anger at the core, anger at _fate_ for _daring_ to reduce _Jim_ to this state, to reduce him to a starved animal when he is so much more, when his mind _shines_ and his soul is _radiant_ and he is _everything_ to Spock, _everything_ –

And again Spock clamps down on the water surging against his shields, again he compresses it into a ball, buried under layers and layers of calming psi-energy. It will not be contained like this forever. But for now, it must be enough, because James is already looking at him with enough fear and shame to make Spock’s side constrict, and he will not, _will not_ , add to it.

“You are hungry. I apologize for not seeing to this need of yours sooner. I assumed the doctor would have taken care to provide you with sustenance, but naturally he believed you to be asleep. In future, James, you will always have enough to eat. This I swear to you.”

Spock does not care for the skepticism in the boy’s eyes at these words. But he will understand them to be true, with time. For now, Spock finishes with a stern, “And, should you require anything, you _will_ simply ask me.”

The order seems to startle James, and he stops chewing for a moment, staring up at Spock with wide eyes.

“Try the soup as well. It is plomeek, a Vulcan recipe. It is nourishing, and in my experience humans find it appetizing.”

James puts down the bread and reaches for the tray, balancing it carefully on his lap, careful to not spill a single drop. It is hot, and he doesn’t blow on it long enough before pushing a deep spoonful into his mouth. It undoubtedly scalds his tongue.

Spock observes the boy close his eyes, savoring the warm, soothing taste of the plomeek, like pureed potatoes and leeks and a spicy umami that is undeniably alien. The texture is decadent, caressing the tongue and throat as it is swallowed down, and a small, breathy “oh” escapes the boy’s lips after the first sip.

“It’s _gooood_.”

“I am gratified.”

Spock watches the boy devour the soup, stopping only when he has scraped the bottom of the bowl with the last of the bread. Then, he looks up, staring at Spock with hooded eyes, warily opening his mouth, but before he can speak Spock asks –

“Would you like more?”

“ _Can_ I?”

“A small bowl, certainly. More will make you ill. Your body must be slowly acclimatized to wholesome food again, and so you must wait till morning for breakfast.”

As he speaks, Spock walks over and replicates another, smaller bowl of plomeek, this time without the bread. James seems too dazed with the concept of getting breakfast in the morning to do much more than accept the bowl with a small nod, before devouring it like the first.

“Can I have pl - plomeek for breakfast too?”

Spock smiles inwardly at the boy’s high voice, stumbling over the unfamiliar word. Jim, too, loves plomeek, and they often share a meal after alpha shift. “Certainly, if you wish it. It has all the nutrients you require, with the exception of protein which can easily be programmed in. However, perhaps it would be prudent to begin a regular, varied diet?” A tease – “oatmeal, perhaps, with brown sugar and plums?”

Another of Jim’s favorites, and yes, James’ eyes light up.

“That sounds good too.” He is smiling now, small and shy, and Spock’s heart is aching at the small pleasures this boy, this _Jim_ , has so long been denied.

“Then you shall have it.”

The boy lies back down, turning sideways to stare at Spock out of one eye, head nesting into the pillow.

“You still haven’t explained about the other James Kirk.”

Though James’ voice is subdued, now, Spock knows that this is a test. A way to see what, and how much, Spock will tell him. It is a thorny stick of a question, suspended heavily in the air between them, an olive branch or a knife. It is up to Spock to choose.

In the end, the choice is not difficult. Spock is not given to half-truths. And, logically, is it not the boy’s right to know? It is after all his own story, and cannot be concealed indefinitely.

“James Kirk” – he cannot call Jim ‘the other’, it is impossible – “is the Captain of the Enterprise. During an exploratory mission on the surface of the planet, we encountered the archway where you appeared to us. It exerted an overwhelming psi-attractive force on all the humans present on the away team, affecting the Captain most of all as he was closest. He was pulled into the archway, and would have been consumed had I not forcefully removed him. In the next instant, you appeared.”

Spock pauses.

“After exhaustive research into the limited information available on this artifact, I have come to conclude that you and he are versions of one another. You are a younger version of the James Kirk who is my Captain.”

James sits up halfway through Spock’s words, breathing harshly. They echo, ragged, in the silence when Spock is finished speaking.

“That – that doesn’t – ” James’ throat constricts. “It doesn’t make any _sense_! You mean there’s a grown-up _me_ here, on this ship – he’s the _Captain_? He’s in charge of everything?”

“Indeed. He is a decorated Starfleet officer, the youngest Captain in the fleet, with a loyal crew.”

James’ face twists. “Just like my father.” The boy’s expression is wooden, a sudden mask that Spock cannot decipher. But it flickers over his face for only a moment, before being chased away by wide-eyed wonder. Spock files the moment away for later reflection.

“…That’s really me? A captain of a _starship_? With… with _friends_?”

 “Indeed. The Captain has many friends, Doctor McCoy and myself among them.”

“ _You_ _’re_ his friend?” And the question is so innocent, so profoundly childlike in its intensity, that Spock cannot help what he says next.

“Yes, young James. I am proud to count the Captain as my closest, dearest friend.” A pause, and then – “I would be yours, as well, if you will allow me.”

The longing in James’ eyes is suddenly replaced by shadow.

“But, I’m _not_ him! I could never be him.” And suddenly, angrily – “Things have happened to me that I bet never happened to him! You can’t just assume we’re the same person because of some stuff you read somewhere – it doesn’t make sense! I’m different, I’m _me,_ and, and – ”

His voice drops into an almost-whisper, no longer the voice of a child, but of someone old and exhausted. “I could never be a starship captain. And nor could he, if he’s really me.” His head droops, breathing labored.

Spock aches to reassure him, to thrust away the pain and sorrow and replace it with the laughter that should be every child’s right. But James is exhausted, and now is not the time to deal with the trauma of his past – the _rape_ – Spock closes his eyes in pain before viciously thrusting the word out of his mind. No – the boy does not need to know that Spock is aware of his past. That conversation requires a far greater degree of trust than they have yet established, and Spock will not allow James to close himself off. He could not bear it. The boy’s trust in him is of ultimate importance.

Spock does not care to examine the logic of this.

So all he allows himself to say is, softly – “You will be surprised, I believe, at the depths of your capabilities.”

The boy does not look up, but his shoulders start to tremble, and then shake, and finally he is crying in earnest, biting his fist to stifle the sobs and turning away from Spock in a futile attempt at concealment.

It is as if Spock is drawn - iron to magnet, moth to flame, he has never been able to resist the pull of James Kirk, and he finds he does not want to – to reach up and enclose the boy in his arms. He holds him hesitantly at first, gingerly, almost drawing back when James flinches in reflex, but then slowly tightens his hold. He lowers himself to sit on the edge of the biobed and pulls James’ shoulders into the cocoon of his embrace.

And then James is limp in his arms, his thin, thin body wracked with sobs, his head butting, rubbing against Spock’s chest, hair tickling Spock’s chin. It is identical to the way Jim was clutching him yesterday, and there is a rightness to having James Kirk in his arms that moves Spock to the core.

He has never been one to murmur sweet nothings, but the boy doesn’t need him to, burying his head in Spock’s solid warmth, sobs subsiding into hiccups as Spock rubs slow circles into his shoulders. And when the boy's head lolls, heavy with sleep, on Spock’s shoulder, he readjusts himself against the bedpost, to guard James' sleep till morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's Spock talking to little James at last, and I loved writing every. minute. of. this. I am in love with Spock, and Jim, and James, and I hope a little of what I'm feeling is coming through.
> 
> Thank you so much for all the wonderful, wonderful support and reviews! They make my day, every time. As always, please let me know what you think! xoxoxo


	7. Chapter 7

After jerking awake yet again from his half-slumber, heart hammering, nausea roiling in his gut, Jim gives up and gets out of bed. It is 0430 hours, ship time. The Enterprise is silent, manned only by the skeleton delta shift crew on the bridge. He is tempted to go up – the environment of cool, collected efficiency on the bridge has always calmed him – but a surprise visit from the Captain in the middle of the night tends to unsettle his crew. And anyway, he’s technically not allowed to take the conn while on medical leave.

So Jim is here, hovering outside the doors to sickbay, gathering the courage to enter and check on – himself? The boy? Jim snorts. Bones has taken to calling him ‘little James’ but Jim really needs a better idea of what he’s feeling before he can go ahead and decide on what to call the kid. And though he knows that the boy is a version of himself, calling him ‘Jim’ is just – _too_ bizarre.

Jim takes a breath. This is his duty; the boy is his responsibility, both personally and as Captain. He can get through this. He just needs – distance. And Spock. He needs Spock. His First will know what to do.

It scares Jim, sometimes, this level of dependency on his First Officer. So he’s forced himself to come down to Sickbay alone, without knocking on Spock’s door and dragging him along. Spock dealt with enough of his shit yesterday – Jim cringes in shame at the memory of attacking Bones with the hypo – and then he worked double shifts to make up for Jim’s absence.

So Jim will let him rest, though Spock would surely disagree. ‘Vulcans require less sleep than humans, Captain.’ Jim can hear the words, the intonation low and measured, Spock’s answer whenever Jim calls him out on working too hard. Whenever he sees him enter the mess for breakfast directly from the science labs after spending the night on his personal experiments. Whenever he wakes up in Sickbay and finds Spock there, and Bones tells him that “the hobgoblin just wouldn’t leave, dammit.” Whenever he loses a crewmember and the waves of guilt are too much, and Spock takes over his paperwork and files the personnel loss forms and puts him back together, quietly and efficiently and without being asked.

Jim closes his eyes.

The familiar fear is building up in his gut as he imagines the look in Spock’s eyes as he finds out about Jim’s past, his _relationship_ with Kodos – disgust, anger, the realization that Jim is not who Spock thought he was…

But it is a familiar panic, and Jim clamps down on it. Yesterday was the first time in years that he had lost control, the sudden appearance of the boy dragging his worst memories to the forefront of his mind. But he can control it now. He must.

So Jim takes a breath and keys in the Sickbay access code and steps across the threshold as the door slides open.

And stares.

There is the boy, asleep on the biobed, head on a pillow which is resting on – Spock’s legs? Spock, sitting cross-legged, back straight and eyes closed in meditation, one hand in the traditional meditative position on his knee, and the other resting lightly on the hair of the boy asleep in his lap.

Jim doesn’t know how long he stands, frozen, taking in the sight of Spock’s calm face and his hand protectively curled in little James’ hair. The boy is sleeping more peacefully than Jim ever remembers doing at that age – and rarely since. Jim’s eyes are prickling with heat and his throat is blocked, heavy with an emotion that he can’t name, but _overwhelming fucking gratitude_ seems a good place to start.

He must make a noise, because Spock’s eyes suddenly fly open. They fix on Jim, and the tips of his ears green slightly. He starts to get up, but Jim raises his hand and pads over to the biobed.

“Don’t get up, Spock. He’s sleeping.”

Jim’s whisper is soft, and Spock answers in kind.

“I am aware, Captain.”

Then they are silent, both looking at the boy on Spock’s lap, watching as his chest rises and falls, barely perceptible under the covers. Jim reaches over to carefully brush some hair away from the boy’s eyes, and his palm brushes against Spock’s fingertips, still nestled lightly in James’ hair.

The contact is brief, but Jim’s eyes fly to Spock’s, who is looking back at him with steady warmth.

“You were a lovable child, Jim.”

 Jim’s lips curve in a small smile. “Yeah?”

“Yes. I have interacted with young James for a total of 2.38 hours, yet am already feeling strongly protective of him. His happiness is – dear to me.”

“He’s a kid who’s been starved, Spock.” _And so much worse_. “And he’s all alone here. Anyone would feel protective.”

Spock inclines his head. “Perhaps. And yet I believe that his hold over me is a deeper one than that which would be occasioned simply by the circumstances you state.” Spock’s eyes are inscrutable, brow slightly creased, and Jim isn’t sure what he means. Judging by the language, Spock isn’t sure either – Jim has noticed that he is markedly more verbose in times of emotional uncertainty.

Jim is just about to make some sort of reply when the red alert alarm leaps to life.

The klaxon screeches, insistent whine echoing across Sickbay, red lights flashing, and Lieutenant Tw’ilda’s panicked voice blares across the ship-wide intercom “Captain Kirk, Commander Spock, your presence is requested on the bridge immediately!”

Jim responds instantly, vaulting across the biobed to slap the intercom and say “On my way! Kirk out!” before turning to Spock, who is at his side in an instant, but then –

A deafening boom resonates across the Enterprise’s hull and the ship tilts dangerously and –

Little James jerks awake, eyes huge with fear, scrambling off the biobed and running towards the Sickbay doors, and Jim lunges to grab his arm and Spock catches him by the waist and deposits him back on the bed.

Spock speaks urgently. “You must remain here, James. My presence is required on the bridge.”

The boy looks terrified, fisting his hand in Spock’s shirt. Spock crouches down, so that the boy is looking down at him from his perch on the edge of the biobed. His voice is low and gentle. “Do not worry. I will return as soon as I can.”

The boy bites his lower lip to stop its trembling and nods, once. Nurse Chapel comes running in through the side door, and Jim barks, “Watch the child, Christine!”, and then he and Spock are off, running down the hall towards the turbolift.

Adrenaline surges through Jim’s veins, but he’s on goddamn medical leave.

“Spock – I can’t take the conn – you have to do it.”

Spock doesn’t hesitate.

“Yes, Sir.”

And then the turbolift spits them out on the bridge, into the chaotic mix of delta and alpha shift crewmembers. As soon as Lieutenant Tw’ilda sees them, she jumps out of the command chair as though burnt, and Spock strides over to take it, Jim coming to stand next to him.

“Status, Lieutenant?”

Tw’ilda stands at attention and her voice is calm, but her wildly waving antennae clearly show her agitation.

“An unidentified ship was sighted at 0300 hours, Sir. We attempted to hail it peacefully, but it initiated evasive maneuvers as soon as it noticed our presence. We followed its warp trail for several jumps into the gamma quadrant. Since we are nowhere close to the neutral zone, we suspected unarmed smugglers, until the ship uncloaked and fired once.”

“And no communication has been established?”

“No, Sir.”

“Lieutenant Sulu, what is the status of our shields?”

“Shields at 44%, Sir. Two more blasts like that and we’ll be in trouble.”

Jim scans the bridge. Most of alpha shift is at their stations, now, except – “Where the hell is Chekov?” They need the navigator’s skills; Ensign Smithson of delta shift is far from ready for this kind of emergency.

“Here, Captain!” Chekov tumbles out of the turbolift, shirt on backwards, and sprints to his station, pushing out Smithson, who looks only too happy to be relieved.

“Lieutenant Sulu, arm and aim long-range phasers and wait for my command. Ensign Chekov, initiate anticipatory evasive maneuvers against further attacks. Lieutenant Uhura, broadcast the standard stand-down warning on all frequencies, and scan for any incoming transmissions. Lieutenant-Commander Scott, monitor the warp core and inform me immediately if any further damage affects our ability to warp at will.”

Spock’s crisp orders drive out the last of the panic on the bridge. Spock turns to Jim, and they share a brief nod. Now that the situation has stabilized, it is time to investigate.

“Lieutenant Mabarra, display a visual of the enemy ship.”

The tactical officer nods, and an image of the ship fills the holoscreen in the middle of the bridge.

“It appears to be a Klingon warbird, Sir, one of the newer models described in last month’s update from Starfleet Intelligence. It has the distinctive anti-gravity welding around the bay-seams and the upgraded novite thruster casings.”

Jim stares at the holoscreen. According to the neutral zone treaty, an offensive Klingon vessel this far into the gamma quadrant is an _act of war._ Why is one here so suddenly, after months of nothing more than routine intimidation maneuvers at the neutral zone, and without any previous demands?

And why has it stopped firing?

Something is wrong with this entire scenario. Jim speaks, slowly – "That doesn’t make sense.”

Spock gives a sharp nod. “I agree, Sir. The Klingons must be aware that to bring an offensive vessel so far into the gamma quadrant is an act of war. Are you certain, Lieutenant, that this is a warbird?”

And that’s it – that’s the answer. The thrill of certainty rushes through Jim’s veins.

“It isn’t a warbird, Mr. Spock. Or at least, not a _Klingon_ one.”

“Sir?”

Jim walks up to the holoscreen, pointing at the ship’s wings. “See the wing design? It has six retractable segments, but each of them have notches for docking into planetside ports. It looks very similar to the Klingon warbird design, but their spacedocks are entirely orbit-based. The crews only disembark from Klingon ships by shuttle, not direct docking. No – this ship was made by the Federation.”

Spock’s eyes widen in realization and he shoots a burning look over at Jim before he is on his feet as well, circling the hologram with eyebrows raised. Jim continues, talking half to himself now –

“So it’s a _fake_ , it must be – but why?” He turns to his crew. “Ideas, anyone? Uhura, no communication yet?”

“No, Sir. They’re ignoring us completely.”

Suddenly, an explosion rocks the bridge again, and Sulu’s panicked voice rises across the ensuing clamor.

“Shields at 20%! They’ve taken out our long-range phasers! We can’t hit them from here, or withstand another shot like that one!”

Scotty’s voice crackles over the intercom. “That hit took some serious power out of us, Captain, Commander! We can’t warp till the core recalibrates – at least twenty ship-minutes!”

He continues, voice rising in agitation. “There shouldn’t _be_ a phaser that can do that much damage to the Enterprise while it’s shielded. And to the protected phaser nacelles! I’ve never seen anything like it!”

Jim agrees. The situation is quickly getting out of hand, and he quashes the rising panic. Beside him, Spock comes to the same realization. His voice is clipped, brusque.

“Thank you, Mr. Scott. Our priority, then, is to avoid further damage at all costs. Ensign Chekov, why were we unable to avoid the last shot?”

“It’s too fast, Sir! The sensors barely registered the heat signal before it hit us! Truly, it’s something completely new!”

Jim doesn’t believe it. This is _ridiculous_ – there is no way that the _Enterprise_ is just standing here, stuck, unable to warp, being gunned down by a random _fake Klingon ship_.

He turns to Spock, who is sitting in the command chair with eyes closed in concentration. Jim knows better than to interrupt, so he turns to flash a smile across the bridge. The crew relaxes marginally.

Then Spock’s eyes fly open and he strides across the bridge to stand next to Chekov.

“Ensign. Plot locations of all bodies around the Enterprise with gravitational mass above Kraft-Epsilon Level Twelve.”

Chekov looks confused for a second, before his eyes widen in understanding. His fingers fly across his console, and his voice vibrates with tension, excitement thickening his accent as he says – “Zat might actually work, Sir! We will simply maneuver to ze critical radius and any missile should curve right past us to hit ze planet instead – _if_ it has enough mass – how can you be sure Level Twelve is enough?”

 “If the missiles are too fast for the Enterprise sensors to respond to, yet large enough to render our long-range phasers inoperable in a single shot and to be housed on a ship the size of a Klingon warbird, then I estimate their mass to be in the range of 8.3 and 10.9 gravitons. Level Eleven may be a risk, however.”

Chekov is nodding so fast his head is a blur, and the holoscreen changes to show the field of planetoids around the Enterprise. Chekov highlights one on his console. Before he can ask, Spock nods sharply.

“Yes, Ensign, navigate there immediately, but attempt to disguise our path. Let them believe we are merely drifting.” Spock turns to the communications console – “Lieutenant Uhura, broadcast a mercy and distress call. It is to our advantage if they believe we are vulnerable.”

Everyone else on the bridge– Jim included – is staring at Spock in slack-jawed awe as he sits back down in the command chair. He turns to face Jim, who clears his throat.

“Explain, Mr. Spock?”

“We need not fear another hit, Sir. Entering so far into a planet’s gravity well is in most cases avoided, because of the thruster drain required to escape, and the ease of target for any opposing ships. However, with the Enterprise’s powerful short-range phasers, the enemy vessel will not dare to approach any closer, and their long-range phasers can no longer hit us.”

Jim can hear the relief and satisfaction in his First’s voice, and feels the relief wash over him as well. _This_ , this right here is why they are such a brilliant command team. He claps Spock on the shoulder. “Excellent work, Mr. Spock.”

Chekov speaks up. “We are in position, Sir.”

“Acknowledged, Ensign.”

Jim turns to address the bridge. “Now it’s a waiting game. Be patient, please, everyone. I have a feeling they’ll be hailing us soon, though.”

Mabarra brings up the pseudo-warbird on the holoscreen again. They all stare at it, hovering ominously against the backdrop of stars.

Jim steps closer to the command chair until he can feel Spock’s warmth through the centimeter of air separating their forearms. So this is how Spock stands every day, on Jim’s right, a little behind, head tilted downwards deferentially as he speaks.

It feels right, to have their situations reversed for once. They have never been a traditional Captain – First Officer pair, one to give orders and the other to execute them. They are a command _team_ , in the fullest sense of the word. This emergency is proof.

Spock looks up to catch Jim’s eye. Jim leans down to murmur – “I think they’re preparing what they think is the final shot. They’ll probably hail us right before they shoot. They must have a message of some sort.”

Spock inclines his head. “I concur, Sir. It is, as you say, ‘the waiting game.’”

Jim grins, tense with anticipation. Silence descends on the bridge, interrupted only by repeated beeps from the communications console, signaling unreceived messages. The tension rises, seconds stretching into minutes.

Suddenly, Uhura’s receiver flares green.

“The ship is hailing us, Sir!”

Jim straightens so fast he cricks his back. Spock’s response is cool, but Jim observes the slight tension in his hands as they lightly grip the armrests of the command chair.

“Transfer the call to the holoscreen, Lieutenant. Let us see what they have to say.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! An emergency on the bridge, hehehehehehehe so FUN :D :D  
> I had fun writing this, I'm giggling right now. I just love Jim and Spock being badass and competent and owning Starfleet and Klingons and everything else. Also, reading back, I felt like Jim was coming across as TOO vulnerable and needy. He's not, he's BADASS. Little James appeared and that triggered all the memories he's repressed, but he's not BROKEN in the way I felt he was coming across as - little James is. So.  
> Yeah I feel kind of foolish writing this in the author's notes - "show, don't tell" and this is the worst kind of "tell". Oops?  
> But that's what this chapter is for. Apart from being FUN and AWESOME.
> 
> Thank you SO MUCH for your LOVELY, WONDERFUL REVIEWS. You have no idea how happy it makes me to see a new kudos and especially a comment. It's like a little rainbow all for me and I ADORE you for it.
> 
> Please, do let me know what you think! Yes this is sort of a cliffhanger but the chapter was getting too long and I need to sleep. More next week!  
> xoxoxoxoxo


	8. Chapter 8

Spock’s grip on the armrests of the command chair tightens marginally, even as he forces his racing heart to slow and regulates his body’s systems back to their optimum equilibrium. The Captain speaks from his side.

“Handle this carefully, Mr. Spock. Try to throw them off balance from the beginning. We have the upper hand, but they don’t know it.”

“And shall I inform them that we are aware they are not Klingon, Sir?”

The Captain frowns. “I’m not sure. See how it goes. I leave it to your discretion.” Then he steps away and off to the side, out of view of the bridge camera.

From the communications console behind him, Lieutenant Uhura’s murmurs, “Live, Sir”, and the holoscreen fills with the view of a shadowy room, curved walls reminiscent of the bridge of the enterprise. The floor of the room is in shadow, covered by a lightly curling, smoking mist. There is a steel table at the very end of the room, at a distance of approximately 10.3 meters from the camera. In the dim lighting, Spock observes a figure seated in a large, imposing chair. The black leather backrest rises far above the figure’s head, which is tilted approximately 33 degrees to the side. From this distance, it is just possible to make out the elevated forehead and distinctive ridges forming the cranial sagittal crest of the Klingons.

The entire scene is ridiculously overdone. He hears the Captain suppress a snort.

When the figure makes no move to speak, Spock leans back in the command chair, allowing his spine to curve into the soft back and his fingers to curl smoothly around the armrests. It is a technique he has learned from Jim. The soft, arrogant insolence of the posture is vastly irritating to the ‘bigshot on the other end’, as Jim would put it.

The silence stretches. The bridge crew around him know better than to interrupt.

Finally, the figure stands with a snarl, slamming his hands down on the table in front of him. “Well? We’re going to blast you to pieces in one more shot – don’t you want to know why?”

The voice is rough and guttural, speaking Standard with the distinctive Klingon accent, dominated by muted consonants reminiscent of the ancient Terran Chinese. But now that Spock is aware of what to look for, he can hear the tinny, metallic undertones of a tonal voice-scrambler.

Spock inclines his head with deliberate slowness. “Certainly. Do tell.”

The figure’s hands clench into fists. Then, abruptly, he relaxes, and sits back down in the chair, sprawled sideways, one leg swinging over the opposite armrest.

“You can’t bluff past _me_ , _thua-let_ ”. The Klingon insult – ‘Federation swine’ – falls easily past his lips, pronunciation flawless.

Spock says nothing.

“Where’s the Captain, eh?”

“I am the Acting Captain of the Enterprise.”

“Oh? Something’s gone wrong with your little blue-eyed celebrity? The Kelvin baby? Blasting him and the flagship of the Federation to bits in one shot – I almost wish you could stay around to watch the fun.”

Weighing the odds, Spock decides to go along with the deception. More data is needed to determine the enemy’s purpose, and revealing their hand too early could send them running. The Enterprise would be unable to follow, needing time to recalibrate its warp core and escape from the gravity well.

“You are aware that this will constitute an act of war. You cannot hope to match the might of the Federation. They will hunt you down. And then your people will die, by the millions.”

The figure grins, lips stretching to reveal teeth filed to points.

“ _But so will yours._ ”

He raises one hand above his head, fingers curled into a fist.

“ _FIRE!_ ”

The roar reverberates around the bridge, and the entire crew stiffens. Spock sees the Captain clench his hands into fists, tight at his side. Behind him, Uhura lets out a gasp, and Lieutenant Foster reaches over and captures her wrist in a reassuring squeeze.

They watch, holding their breath, as the white burst of a long-range phaser missile emerges from the warbird’s nacelles, seeming to travel in slow motion across the vast darkness between them, seeking out the Enterprise’s heat signature, growing overwhelmingly large in the viewscreen –

– before curving to the side, missing the rear bay port by bare meters, and crashing into the planetoid’s atmosphere.

Chekov lets out a whoop of glee. “It worked, Commander! Ve did it!”

Spock inclines his head, not taking his eyes off the figure in the holoscreen. “Indeed, Ensign. Well done.” He raises a mocking eyebrow.

The figure stares back at Spock, jaw hanging open. Eyes blazing, Jim strides over to stand next to the command chair. Spock can sense Captain trembling with barely controlled fury, but Jim’s sneer is calm, confident, and utterly scornful.

“Nice try. Now, cut the crap. Your Klingon disguise is as worthless as your attempt to take us out. Who are you, and what do you want?”

The figure snaps his jaw shut, and the glare he levels at the Captain chills even Spock. He does not seem unduly displeased at the failure of his disguise and his plan to shoot them down.

“James _Kirk_. How very like your father you are. Just like him, you wriggle out of corners like a slimy rat.”

Spock blinks. How – unexpected. A personal vendetta against George Kirk? Beside him, the Captain suddenly lets out a scornful bark of laughter.

“Oh I _see_. What a _clever plan_. You hated my father and the anti-aggression peace treaty he helped broker with the Klingons. So you thought you could waltz past us in a fake Klingon warbird and Starfleet would just declare all-out war, didn’t you? Taking out George Kirk’s son and the flagship in one swoop – how could the Federation let this slide?”

Spock’s eyes widen slightly as the pieces fall into place. A singular leap of logic, yet one that makes perfect sense.

Jim hasn’t finished.

“And all the drama, just so that when Starfleet investigated and found our black box, they would see you dressed up as a Klingon. Wow. I’m impressed.”

The figure face is white, lips pinched in anger. He lets out a snarl.

“The anti-aggression treaty is a _farce_. For years, the Klingon bastards terrorized the planets in the neutral zone. They razed our lands, raped our women, killed our men and children. And then, suddenly, some Starfleet-backed coward comes and negotiates a _treaty_? We are supposed to live in _peace_? After everything they did, for hundreds and hundreds of years?”

The figure takes a breath, visibly calming himself.

“For years we have planned this, and a failure right now means _nothing_. You watch out, James Kirk. There will be war between the Federation and the Klingons, and it will be soon. And _you_ – you and your father’s treaty will be _wiped out_ as if they never existed.”

With that, the holoscreen goes dark, and in the next instant, the flash of the pseudo-warbird entering warp washes across the bridge.

There is a moment of stunned silence as the bridge crew struggle to digest what they have just witnessed.

Jim whirls to face Spock, who is already opening up a channel to Lieutenant-Commander Scott.

“Mr. Scott. Status of the warp core?”

Scotty’s voice is resigned. “She needs time, Sir. The blast really took it out of her equilibrators. Warp factor two is all I can get out of her for at least twenty minutes.”

“Dammit!” Jim’s fist strikes the back of the Captain’s chair.

Spock turns to face him. “Their escape now is of no consequence, Sir. We have gained valuable information with this encounter. A pro-aggression faction with the resources to manufacture warbird replicas and develop such weaponry cannot remain hidden for long. They could ill afford our survival today.”

Uhura speaks up from the communications console, voice vibrating with excitement. “They’ve given away far more than they realize. After you called his bluff, Captain, that man turned _off_ his tonal voice scrambler – he didn’t change the frequency! I haven’t come across his accent before, but it seemed vaguely Laurentian, probably from near the sigma end of the cluster. I’m running the recording through the relevant databases now - I’m sure there can’t be more than ten or fifteen matches within a reasonable confidence interval.” She pauses, takes a harsh breath. “We’ll get them yet.”

Her voice is fierce, echoing the sentiments of the bridge crew. More than anything else, they are _angry_ – at the near brush with destruction, the threat of war, and the apparent personal vendetta against their Captain. Their protectiveness swirls against Spock’s shields, matching what is within his own mind.

Jim strides up to the communications console, clapping Uhura on the back. “That is absolutely _fantastic_ work, Lieutenant. Send me a report of the results as soon as possible.” He grins down at her. “With a lead like this, the Admiralty will have no choice but to give us the case. And I’m not letting anyone else have the privilege of hunting these bastards down.”

Sulu lets out a whoop. Chekov claps his hands together, and suddenly the whole bridge crew is laughing, adrenaline diffusing into relief.

Spock rises from the command chair and nods at the bridge crew. “Your response to this crisis was commendable. I will expect your reports before sixteen hundred tomorrow. I would now suggest that the alpha bridge crew return to their rest, while gamma crew conclude the remaining four point three six hours of their shift.” He turns to the Captain, gesturing towards the turbolift. “After you, Sir.”

Jim beams across the bridge, grinning particularly at Uhura and Chekov. “Best crew in Starfleet, I always say. Get some rest, guys. And let people across deck know that if anyone’s a bit late tomorrow, the Acting Captain won’t come down on that too hard, alright?” He elbows Spock in the side.

Spock raises an eloquent eyebrow. “Indeed.”

 

 _______________________________________________________

 

By unspoken agreement, Jim and Spock turn towards medbay. Jim feels his heart rate increase, the panic he didn’t feel in front of the warbird somehow rising to the surface at the prospect of facing his younger self. He swallows, focusing on Spock’s measured stride, and then they are through the medbay doors.

James is curled on the lower half of a biobed, head at an awkward angle as though he had nodded off while leaning against a bedpost. He looks deeply uncomfortable. Nurse Chapel is nowhere to be seen.

Jim nudges the boy in the shoulder, intent on reassuring him that they all right. The boy shifts abruptly, arms coming up over his head in a jerky, violent motion. It is as if he is cowering from unseen terrors, curling up into an even tighter ball, whimpering into the pillow, low and frightened.

“No, please, not again, I’m sorry I’m so sorry, I won’t do it again I promise –”

Jim stumbles back, pushing past Spock, whose brow is deeply furrowed. Spock steps forward, leaning down to hear James’s mumblings, but suddenly they rise to a shriek and the boy is screaming, legs kicking and arms lashing out, catching Spock in the jaw with sudden, harsh violence. And now James’ eyes are open and feral and he’s thrashing on the bed like wild thing but his legs are tangled and he can’t escape, and he’s screaming, screaming and Jim can’t bear the words coming out of his mouth –

“Please, _no_ , _PLEASE_! Don’t hurt me again I’ll do anything, look I’m on my knees, I’ll suck you off, whatever you want, oh, _please_ _–_ ”

The words are spilling out, clashing with an unbearable ugliness against the boy’s impossibly young, innocent face and memories are flashing before Jim’s eyes and through them all, in a haze, he can see Spock, sitting as if carved from stone as the boy crashes to the floor in a tangle of blankets and finally scrambles free, dashing across the room and squeezing into an impossibly small ball under the corner biobed.

Before Jim can react, Spock is moving, rising in a fluid motion and taking Jim’s shoulders to guide him firmly onto the biobed. His eyes burn intensely into Jim’s for a brief moment, before he spins around and goes to crouch near the boy.

Jim clutches the headboard, trembling, and watches.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To my lovely, lovely readers -  
> What can I say, except, DO FORGIVE ME for the huge delay. Graduation from university and job applications happened. But I am finally on holiday and I can say with confidence that this story will be seeing a lot of regular updates. Thank you ALL for your wonderful, wonderful reviews that never fail to make me tear up, even when it seems like I've vanished from the face of AO3. Your support and appreciation for the story means the world to me.
> 
> I know this chapter ended kind of abruptly, but I felt like it would be better to get something up and get the momentum rolling again rather than wait even a minute more. I felt like I was too keyed up to publish something to be able to do the scene with Jim Spock and James the justice it, and you, deserve.
> 
> To DustyOldBooks aka Mollyfoster1969 - THANK YOU for remembering me and this story MONTHS into my disappearance. Your support is so incredibly humbling and I hope this chapter expresses a little of my thank you!
> 
> xoxoxoxo


	9. Chapter 9

Spock shifts from a crouch to sit cross-legged on the ground at the foot of the biobed, palms flat on his knees to keep them firmly in James’s line of sight. He leans forward, bending at the waist, until he sees the boy huddled in the furthest corner against the wall under the bed.

Little James holds his head stiff, staring right past Spock at nightmarish visions that only he can see. His eyes are huge, luminescent in the semi-darkness of sickbay, and his thin body trembles faintly. Seconds pass. Slowly, his eyes focus, blue fastening onto Spock’s gentle brown.

“You are safe, James. You have experienced a nightmare.”

“…Spock?”

“Yes.”

The boy swallows, throat working. The panic has still not fully left his eyes. Spock stretches his hand out under the bed, as far as it will go.

“You are safe, little one.”

James grabs Spock’s hand with both of his own, using it to pull himself out in a sudden, mad scramble. Despite his shields, Spock catches hints of fear, anguish, pain, panic – a terrifying kaleidoscope set in a landscape of harsh, barren desert. A voice, resonating – _nothing but a whore, Jimmy-boy_. Laughter, cruel and mocking, and the ghostly touch of binding ropes and nauseating, violating hands. Through it all, Spock can sense echoes of an achingly familiar, iron will. His gut roils, and a jolt like electricity runs up his arm and shivers into his spine.

And then the moment has passed and James is burrowing into his chest and fisting his little hands in the fabric of his science blues. “You’re okay? What happened to the bad guys shooting at us? Is the emergency over? Is anyone hurt? Are _you_ _hurt_?”

Spock’s side constricts. James is tiny in his arms, starved and abused, waking up in an unfamiliar sickbay from a nightmare horrific enough to pierce through Spock’s fully prepared shields. And he is frantically asking if the people aboard the Enterprise, who he has never met, are hurt. If _Spock_ is hurt.

The boy is Jim to the core.

“I am unharmed, James. No one on board has suffered any lasting damage.” Spock quirks an eyebrow. “The, ah, ‘bad guys’ have fled.”

The boy exhales in relief, grinning up at him for a moment before his eyes flutter shut in exhaustion. Spock looks up to see Jim looking fixedly at the back of little James’ head. His eyes are shuttered, the familiar sparkle of blue dulled to a dark gray.

The doors to sickbay fly open, and Doctor McCoy’s voice precedes him through the doors.

“What the hell is Christine telling me about you waking up the boy, Spock? He’s nowhere near recovered enough to deal with the likes of you, let alone suffer through ship-wide emergencies! The number of times I’ve petitioned to have that infernal klaxon muted in my sickbay, and no one listens to my professional medical opinion! Someday some poor sucker will have a heart attack when that thing blares to life in the middle of a seizure and then I’m sure all the blame will be on my head. And why am I not surprised to see _you_ here, Jim?”, he says, turning to glare at Jim, then faltering mid-step when he notices his pale, drawn silence. The glare mellows somewhat into a look of sharp concern.

Little James gives a start, noticing Jim for the first time. He stares for a moment, frozen, before pushing himself off Spock’s lap. He turns his back on Jim, standing to face the doctor, crossing his arms and jutting out his chin.

“Spock didn’t wake me – I was awake already.”

The doctor’s posture gentles at the sight of the defiant boy, but his voice is stern.

“And how can that be, when I set up your restorative tranquilizer myself?”

James’ eyes harden. “I don’t like being sedated.”

McCoy stalks over to James’ biobed and, in a swift glance, takes in the swapped nutrient tubes and reversed alarm sensor. He turns, hands on hips and both eyebrows raised.

“A clever scheme! Alarm and sedative both! Don’t know why I’m even surprised. No one on board seems to have a care for their own health. And heaven forbid they realize I’m a doctor, or understand that I have their best interest in mind! I suppose I should be grateful that you’re still here and haven’t simply run away!”

Anyone who regularly interacts with the doctor has long since learned to look past this acerbic bluster. To those who know him, it would be clear that he is worried for the boy, and to some extent grudgingly impressed with his actions. But little James is not Jim, regardless of the DNA they may share. And James does _not_ know him.

Blue eyes flash, cold and defiant and fearful. He leans forward, trembling hands clenched into fists. His high voice is harsh. “How dare you? You didn’t even tell me what you were doing, or ask me if you could!”

McCoy abruptly shuts his mouth, taking a step back. Spock stands, placing a warm hand on little James’ shoulder.

“The doctor is concerned for your health, James, nothing more.” He turns to McCoy, grave. “We are strangers to James. He has no reason to trust us, doctor, no matter how familiar he may seem. We must accord his unique situation, and his wishes, the respect they deserve.”

The doctor closes his eyes briefly, and Spock sees the weight of understanding settle in the fine lines around his eyes. When he opens them again, his voice is rough.

“I’m sorry, James. I didn’t mean to alarm you. You’re right, of course – I should have asked you for permission to administer a sedative. I assure you it won’t happen again.”

Through his hold on the boy’s shoulder, Spock feels him startle at this sincere speech. He looks up at Spock with wide eyes, plainly thrown. Spock’s eyes gentle, crinkling at the corners.

“Thank you, doctor. You have no further need to worry. James now understands that following your medical recommendations will ensure his optimal recovery.”

James nods at the doctor’s knees, suddenly shy. McCoy smiles at him, bright and brilliant.

“Thanks, kid. Now will you listen to me and please come back to bed?”

“You won’t try to knock me out again?”

“No, no sedatives, I promise.”

“All right.” James clambers back into the biobed, drawing the covers up to his chin.

“I’d like to turn on the sleep monitor, but I’ll leave it off if you prefer.”

The boy hesitates, darting a glance up at Spock. “I don’t really want to be watched while I sleep…”

McCoy raises his hands. “Sure. Sure, no problem. Will you allow me to administer the nutrient serum? You’ll recover your strength four times as fast as you would the normal way.”

“Okay.” Then, after a moment – “Thank you.”

A flash of sadness crosses the doctor’s face, but he chases it away with a grin. His eyes are soft.

“You’re very welcome, James. I’m here to help. Now try to sleep.”

James turns to Spock, hesitant.

“Will you stay?”

Spock knows he must refuse, must see to the Captain, but the logic of the decision does not make it any easier.

“No, James.” Spock speaks softly, gently, but the boy’s eyes fall nonetheless. Spock hurries to continue. “I will speak with the Captain and retire to my quarters. But if you are amenable, I will join you for breakfast tomorrow morning. Oatmeal with brown sugar and plums, I believe?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Spock sees Jim look up sharply. The expression on his face is raw, tortured. Spock’s heart stutters at the sight. His desire to speak with Jim in private – to understand what is going through his mind – intensifies into a sense of urgency.

James is looking in the other direction, and does not notice. He grins shyly. “Yes. Okay.”

“Then I bid you a good night, little one.” Spock turns, eyes locking onto Jim’s, and gestures towards the door. In a haze, Jim slowly stands and starts to make his way to the door. Spock is at his side in an instant, placing a supporting hand in the crook of his elbow.

“Wait!”

Spock turns to face the boy. Jim is wooden against him, eyes fixed on the floor. Little James is biting his lip so hard that it is white against his flushed face.

A pregnant pause, then – “Are you James Kirk too?”

Jim looks terror-stricken. Spock stands frozen. McCoy, jerking up from the foot of the biobed where he is adjusting the nutrient dispenser, opens his mouth but shuts it again abruptly. The silence rings.

Then, slowly, Jim drags his eyes up from the floor to look directly at James. Identical pairs of blue eyes fasten onto each other, both equally terrified.

“Uh, yeah. Hey there.” Jim’s voice is a dry croak. Through his hold on his elbow, Spock feels him begin to tremble, faint as a leaf fluttering in a delicate breeze.

“Were you – were you on Tarsus too?” Little James’ voice breaks on the last words, eyes impossibly huge.

Jim’s trembling intensifies until he is full-on shaking, and Spock brings his other hand behind Jim’s back to clasp his opposite shoulder, physically holding him upright. The moment stretches, suspended with the clarity of a crystal droplet just before it crashes and bursts into a million irretrievable shards. And then last of Spock’s tenuous control over his shields is lost, crushed into nothingness by the weight of Jim’s memories, the impossible measure of his anguish, and Spock is drowning –

_Hunger. Toe-numbing cold. A boy is sitting huddled in a ratty blanket, once brightly patterned but now faded and dirtied to an indeterminate gray. He is naked._

_Hunger._

_And then_ _– footsteps. Oddly light, almost tiptoeing across a marble floor, then down a flight of stairs. Then the cellar door opens, a rush of golden warmth streaming into the room, along with the smoky scent of a warm wood fire._

_The man stands silhouetted against the light. He is slender, tall. Handsome, with chiseled chin, aristocratic nose. Silken mahogany hair falls in waves to his shoulders. His brow is elegant, swept over slightly narrow-set eyes._

_The eyes are a light, translucent grey. If not for a thin black outline, the irises would be almost indistinguishable from the whites. They are piercing, and slightly crazed._

_“Helloooo, Jimmy-boy._ _”_

_Like everything else about the man, his voice is light_ _– in both volume and tone. Higher-pitched than one would expect, and breathy, barely above a whisper. It is eerie in its gentleness._

_The boy in the blanket twitches at the sound of the voice, before relapsing into tense stillness._

_A servant enters, carrying a tray covered with a towel. The room fills with the scent of yeasty bread, spicy stew. The servant bows low to the man, places the tray on the floor at his feet, and leaves without a glance at the boy._

_The door shuts behind him, noiseless._

_“I brought you food, Jimmy-boy. You_ _’re eating better than anyone else on this planet except me. Isn_ _’t that better than eating rats? Aren_ _’t you better off here than anywhere else?_ _”_

_The man glides forwards, the shiny heels of his boots absolutely soundless against the worn floorboards._

_“Why run away, Jimmy-boy?_ _” The man runs a sculpted finger lightly down the side of the boy_ _’s face, starting from the hairline, stopping just above the pulse-point on his neck._ _“I don_ _’t ask for much in return, do I? I keep the good people safe. The worthless must die, but what does it matter?_ _”_

_The finger rubs slow, gentle circles on the pulse-point, and a full-body shudder runs through the boy. The man_ _’s mouth curls appreciatively._

_“And you, Jimmy-boy. You are so good. You have such_ worth _, such_ value _. I can_ _’t let you starve, can I? I am the Governor, the champion of the good and worthy._ _”_

_He straightens. The boy is impossibly small in a huddle at his feet. Then the man bends at the waist, fluidly, bringing his mouth to the curved shell of the boy_ _’s ear. His voice, impossibly, softens further._

_“Get on your hands and knees._ _”_

_Without warning, the boy explodes upwards, clawing at the man_ _’s face, kicking, biting, snarling. He hangs on grimly to the man_ _’s legs, refusing to be dislodged, trying to bring him crashing to the ground. The scuffle lasts for five seconds, before the man wrenches a leg free and sends the boy flying with a sharp, vicious kick to the stomach._

_The boy lies on the ground, twitching, breath coming in sobs. The man dusts off the knees of his trousers, shaking his head, and then steps lightly up to the boy._

_With all his strength, he slaps him across the face with the back of his hand. The motion is cool, casual. The boy_ _’s head swings, a line of blood trailing down the side of his face from his temple._

_“That_ _’s enough, Jimmy-boy. I don_ _’t like to ask twice. You don_ _’t want me to have to_ teach _you_ again _, do you?_ _”_ _At the word_ _‘teach_ _’, his voice softens to a sibilant hiss, and a flash of terror shoots across the boy_ _’s face, defiance bleeding out of his stiff, worn body._

_And then slowly, ever so slowly, the boy plants his hands on the floor and leans forwards until he is on his hands and knees, head hunched between his shoulder-blades._

_The man smiles, pats the boy_ _’s head. His fingertips dance lightly down the boy_ _’s side, sweeping across his back and stomach._ _“That_ _’s a good Jimmy-boy._ _” He undoes his belt._

With a mental gasp, Spock wrenches free from the miasma of Jim’s thoughts. Barely a moment has passed. Jim and little James are still staring at each other with terrified, ferocious intensity, Jim shaking in Spock’s arms. Identical shadows fill their eyes and Spock can do nothing, can think nothing, cannot _cope_ –

He meets McCoy’s eyes and somehow the doctor knows that it is too much, that the sheer measure of it is too much to deal with right now. He comes forward, eyes wild, but his customary bluster does not disappoint and Spock is infinitely grateful.

“All right – that’s more than enough! This conversation can wait till tomorrow! You’re dead on your feet, Jim, Spock! And the boy needs rest, not only physical but also _mental_. Actually that goes for all of you – talking to your time-lapsed alternate selves is the last thing you need at this point. Shoo – get out of my Sickbay, Spock!”

The doctor turns to Jim, speaking insistently. “Let Spock take you to your quarters, Jim.”

And then, when Jim makes no sign of acknowledgement, doesn’t move at all, the doctor whispers – “Please, Jim, _rest_.” His voice cracks on the last word, and Spock turns, half-dragging Jim through the sickbay doors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was almost too much to bear. I don't know how I ended up writing it, but I'm about to click publish and am almost crying. I was shaking while re-reading it just now for the last edits.
> 
> Please let me know what you think. Your reviews mean the world to me. I love you all.
> 
> I'm going to go cry in a corner now. And start feverishly working on the next chapter so I can fix this.


	10. Chapter 10

As they approach the Sickbay doors, little James calls out to stop them, voice high and desperate.

“Wait! I just have one question – please! The people who shot at the ship – they weren’t after me, were they? No one else came out of the portal to take me back, did they?”

To Jim, the question is like a knife slicing through fog. He freezes, appalled, and turns sharply on his heel to face the boy on the biobed. Beside him, Spock does the same. McCoy makes a strangled noise, and then they are speaking over him in sudden rush.

“Certainly _not_ , James.”

“No way! Not a chance in hell!” Jim feels a surge of irrational anger at the absurdity of the question – and at the fact that, to the boy, the question is _not_ absurd. For a moment, he is speechless, and Spock’s smooth, reassuring voice fills the silence.

“The Enterprise’s recent altercation was with an anti-Klingon pro-aggression faction in the Laurentian cluster, far removed from any connection with the abandoned Kursilian planet where you were found. They were most definitely unaware of your presence aboard, James.”

“Exactly! It had nothing to do with you. And anyway, the portal is dead, right, Spock? There’s no way it can be activated again naturally in anything less than a thousand years.”

“Indeed, Captain.”

Jim walks back up to the biobed, certain of nothing except a driving need to make the boy understand that, at last, no matter what came before, he is _safe_. James stares up at him, relief and uncertainty warring in his eyes.

“You’re _safe_. I swear it. You’re never going back there again, and _no one_ is coming after you.” Jim wavers, unable to convey the intensity of what he wants to say with mere words. He swallows, throat working, and glances at Spock instinctively.

Spock’s eyebrows have that small furrow between them that Jim has come to associate with frustration, and his eyes are slightly widened – with anger? helplessness? – as his eyes bore into little James’, and then move to Jim’s. He seems similarly affected, but as always, finds the words that Jim cannot.

“Jim and I will protect you, little one. You may rest assured of this, above all other things.”

Jim can only nod. But something in his eyes must be convincing, because little James lets out a long exhale, body relaxing. A hint of a smile softens his eyes. “All right.”

“All right is right! Not only these guys, I’m sure I speak for everyone on the Enterprise when I say that no one will let anything happen to you, kid.” McCoy grins, Jim smiles, and Spock’s eyes crinkle. The boy’s glance darts between their faces, and then he quickly ducks his head under his pile of blankets to hide the rising blush.

It is, quite frankly, adorable, and Spock does not hesitate to think so.

Slightly more at peace, Spock gestures towards the door. Before he turns, Jim presses his fingers to the edge of the biobed, along the line of the blankets that little James is buried under. The slight movement draws Spock’s gaze, and the tips of Jim’s fingers turn white under the pressure. Jim's eyes are banked, unreadable.

_____________________________________________

The silence stretches between them in the walk from Sickbay to their quarters, but Jim is grateful for it. The low, thrumming hum of the Enterprise’s heart in the corridors has always calmed him. It is a personification brought to life by the vastness of space, by the small pergium warp core and barely-there duranium framework supporting them through the crushing nothingness. The ship keeps them alive, and so they love her, and so they think of her as living – some small remnant of anti-mechanization, perhaps, of a long-gone age when machines were not to be trusted. In her light, human worries dwindle into insignificance.

The weighty thoughts circle around in his skull, and Jim knows them for what they are – a smokescreen; a sheet of tissue paper trying to hold in a flood, fluttering over the surface like butterflies determined to hide that the flowers on which they feed grow on rotting filth.

Who said that being starved and beaten and raped and traumatized, that living through one of history’s greatest genocides, could have no positive consequences? He will never rape, for one. Will never withhold food, will never think of any species or individual as less because of their genetic make-up. The trauma is, perhaps, the source of his unshakeable sense of equality, of his indiscriminate compassion. IDIC, “infinite diversity in infinite combinations” – he could have come up with it himself, it resonates with him so damn much.

Jim gives a mental snort. Yes, indeed, he has his flowers and butterflies. Doesn’t hide the filth, though; the rot at the heart of him. And now he snorts again, in morbid amusement. The metaphor really has gone too far.

He’s almost forgotten about Spock, as much as he ever can. It is less a conscious knowledge that his First is walking beside him, than an awareness that this is what they do, and therefore this is where Spock must be. The path from Sickbay to the senior officers’ quarters passes the turbolift to the bridge, and so Jim almost thinks that they are just coming back from a routine bridge shift, discussing ship’s business on their way to a game of chess.

Perhaps Spock feels the same, because he casually walks in to Jim’s quarters as Jim keys in the code, before Jim can turn and even start addressing the clusterfuck of a conversation that, “Goodnight, see you on the bridge tomorrow” would no doubt result in.

“Huh.”

Jim shakes his head, following Spock in. Spock’s lack of uncertainty draws Jim along, and he sits down at the table, watching Spock’s fingers on the replicator, punching out the order for Jim’s black, over-sweetened coffee and his own spice tea. The steaming mug is laid down in front of him with characteristic gentleness, and the aroma wafts into Jim’s face and he closes his eyes and just breathes.

“You’re letting me have coffee this late, huh, Spock? You’re not worried I won’t be able to sleep?”

A pause.

“I took the liberty of ordering the decaffeinated version, Jim.”

Jim mock-glares through a single, cracked open eye. Spock barely raises the corner of an eyebrow, picking up his mug and taking a sip, throat working soundlessly as he swallows. He keeps the mug raised at chin-level, long fingers curled in a lattice around the base, letting the steam wash over his face. The mug is made of translucent crystal, and the overhead lights fracture through it, throwing orange shapes across the table and playing curiously over Spock’s pale hands and face. He looks alien. The heat from the steam brings out the green tinge in his cheeks, and Jim feels a rush of fondness.

Time is slow, languid. It is a moment of calm, and Jim savors it like the sugar in his coffee that is sweet, warm, and deliciously complex on his tongue.

 “You know, when he asked that question, about who was attacking us and were they chasing him, I thought, well technically they _are_ chasing James Kirk, aren’t they?” He gives a huff of laughter. “I’m sure someone, somewhere, is laughing. It’s – ridiculously funny.”

“I find no humor in that statement, Jim.” Spock’s eyes are slightly narrowed, but Jim can’t shake off his wry amusement. Spock seems to relent, because he adds – “It is ironic, however, I do admit.”

A snort explodes out of Jim, and Spock shoots him a quelling look. “Indeed, the situation is most complex. If they are chasing you, to what extent does that equate to their chasing him?”

“How different _are_ we, really? That’s the real question! He’s not even from a different timeline. He is literally _past me_.”

Spock inclines his head. “Yes. I too had similar thoughts when James asked whether anyone could, ah, ‘follow him through’ the archway. There is no ‘world’ beyond the archway for anyone to come through. He was – for lack of a better word – _created_ , the instant you entered the kar-lin-mesch.”

“If I hadn’t entered the archway, he wouldn’t be here.”

“He would not be anywhere.” A pause, then, softly – “He would not _be_.”

The concept is too vast. Jim cannot comprehend it – it is the age-old ‘ _where do we come from?_ _’_ question, but magnified thousandfold. No longer an abstract discussion on the origin and purpose of evolutionary life, it is instead harrowingly personal. Did the archway _make_ little James? And how to _ever_ find the answer to _why_?

Jim takes an overlarge gulp of coffee; splutters slightly.

“It’s a bit much for a kid to deal with.” The understatement of the century. Spock’s fingers are tight around his mug, and his tea is cooling, forgotten.

“Yes.”

Fair enough, Jim thinks. What else is there to say?

Spock continues, staring at a spot on the table. “I believe he should not be informed of the nature of the kar-lin-mesch until he is fully recovered. And perhaps not even then, unless his fear of pursuit through the archway is materially detrimental to his psychological well-being.”

“You’d rather let him think that his tormentors are waiting somewhere in a parallel world?”

“The burden is heavy. But, I would argue that it is less heavy than the knowledge that he, a human with a history and life he remembers as if it were his own, was re-created from a memory of yours. And due to nothing more than a whim of fate.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I get it. I totally agree. Of course, one could argue that anyone’s birth is ‘a whim of fate’, but the devil’s in the details. It’s different when it’s _you_ specifically, rather than ‘life’ as a whole.”

“Ignoring your reference to the antagonist of ancient Terran Christianity, your meaning is understood.” Spock is wearing the long-suffering expression that he adopts in the face of illogical human idioms, characterized by a slight deadpan note in his voice and a certain flatness of his eyebrows. Jim grins widely.

Mood considerably lightened, Jim stands up to reheat his coffee, plucking Spock’s mug from his loose fingers as he does so. His wrist brushes Spock’s fingertips, and the familiar anxiety over what Spock might see in his mind is brushed away by the spark of electricity that radiates from the point of contact on his wrist up his forearm, dissipating in the joint of his elbow. Spock seems to feel it too, because his eyes widen slightly. Suddenly conscious, Jim turns to reheat the mugs, feeling Spock’s eyes on his back.

He returns to the table, setting Spock’s tea in front of him with considerably less grace than Spock had shown earlier. It sloshes slightly over the rim, a droplet running down the side to pool at the base. Jim blushes slightly.

“Sorry.”

“It is no matter. Thank you, Jim.”

Spock’s eyes are warm as he raises the mug to his lips. A thin circle of liquid is visible on the glass of the tabletop, and Spock sets the mug back down exactly in the center.

They finish drinking in comfortable silence. Reluctant as he is to break the calm after the madness of the last day, or send Spock from his quarters and face his nightmares alone, Jim pushes his chair back. They both have bridge duty in a little under four hours, and even if Jim knows he won’t catch a wink of sleep, he should let Spock rest.

“I’m knackered. Get some rest, Spock. We can’t all be zombies on the bridge tomorrow.”

Jim is not aware of the note of falseness in his voice, or of the fact that he is holding his breath, until he sees Spock’s expression tighten.

But of course. This conversation has been far, far too easy, and Jim knows it.

He gives it a last shot, cheerfulness slightly desperate. “Thanks for the tea and company.” He tries to flash a megawatt grin, but it no doubt comes out as a grimace. Either way, it has no effect other than to make Spock narrow his eyes, expression growing stormy. Jim suddenly feels deeply uneasy, and inexplicably ashamed. He can’t meet Spock’s eyes.

“That is not all I wish to speak of, Jim.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I started grueling, full-time work for the first time in my life, and it is EXHAUSTING. When I come home at night the last thing I want to do is stare at a computer screen. So that's why this chapter is so damn late. I really need to stop making excuses. I'm very sorry. Thank you so incredibly much for sticking with this story. You are the most utterly fabulous readers EVER.
> 
> I so hope you enjoy this chapter. I fear the style is quite different - I think I really explored my writer's voice and, and experimented with structuring and presenting deep, intense conversations, supported with no action whatsoever. I really, really hope it doesn't sound jarring or contrived. It's mostly Jim's POV for a change, and I do think Jim thinks in this sort of abstract, fragmented, deeply intellectual way. So that's what I was trying to show here. I would deeply appreciate any feedback on what you think about this - or on the plot, or the developing relationships, or ANYTHING AT ALL. I CHERISH, absolutely CHERISH, each and every one of your comments.
> 
> The next chapter is half written, this just seemed like a good cutoff point, and I really needed to post something up. So it won't be too long before the shit hits the fan and the rest of this conversation explodes...


	11. Chapter 11

Jim squeezes his eyes shut. He really, _really_ doesn’t want to have this conversation, now or ever. He feels an unbearable irritation welling up inside him – but at what? He has no idea, really. At himself; at little James; at the whole clusterfuck of a situation. It’s been preying on him since the moment the boy appeared, and now Spock is here and asking questions and it is, quite literally, the tipping point.

“I’m tired to death, Spock. I’m a human, I need way more sleep than you, remember? _Do we really have to do this now?_ ”

Jim’s voice is tight, weary. He can’t control the waves of frustration washing over him, curling his toes and clenching his fingers into fists.

Spock looks unmoved.

“I estimate that the added duties of liaising with the admiralty regarding the Klingon impersonators, assisting Lieutenant-Commander Uhura with her tracing algorithm, carrying out repairs to the warp core, researching the kar-lin-mesch, and ensuring young James’ optimal recovery will require 98.34 percent of the time we would otherwise spend in each other’s company over the next week, with the exception of bridge shifts, where such a discussion is inappropriate.”

A pause. “I would, therefore, insist that we continue this conversation now.” Uninflected as ever, Spock’s voice now has a hint of steel, and Jim can’t figure out his expression. It is unsettlingly unfamiliar, almost cold, and worsens Jim’s frustration.

Jim pushes his chair away from the table with sudden violence, running a hand harshly through his hair as he leans his hip against the counter, arms crossed. Tension thrums through his frame.

“Okay. Just – okay. What do you want to talk about, then?”

“I wish to discuss how you feel about young James.”

“My _feelings_ , huh? Why? Aren’t they illogical and stupid and not worth my time or yours?”

A hint of something, at last, in Spock’s face – a tightening at the corners of his lips. Dammit if Jim doesn’t hate himself a little right now, because he _knows_ it’s not true, knows Spock cares about him, but he just can’t stop.

“You are being unreasonable, Jim.”

And fuck it, Jim knows he is, but he really doesn’t care. “Deny it, Spock.”

Spock’s lips tighten further, as do the crinkles of skin around his eyes, and his nostrils flare ever so slightly. Jim’s eyes rove over Spock’s face, eagerly latching onto every sign of Spock’s anger. Jim despises this side of himself, this side that pushes his anger out, out, out of himself into whoever happens to be closest, because he can’t deal with it or discuss it – and somehow this conversation is not about the boy anymore but about the ugliness inside of him that he can’t let anyone see.

The earnest calm of Spock’s voice, however, is in contrast to his face, and Jim doesn’t know what to make of it.

“I do deny it, Jim. As a human, your emotions are of paramount importance to your psychological health. It would be illogical to ignore this. My mother was human, and” – the briefest of pauses, one Jim would have missed if he hadn’t been hanging on to every syllable coming out of Spock’s mouth – “I am half-human. It took me long to accept this part of myself, and longer still to understand it. If this process has granted me any wisdom, it is this – sharing emotions with one who would listen brings healing to humans, and repression brings illness.”

Spock takes a breath. “Jim. Friend. I would listen to you.”

Jim forgets to breathe. The full intensity of Spock’s gaze is fastened on to him, holding him and not letting go. His head and heart are splitting, fragmenting, colliding. Emotions well up inside him only to disappear in the next instant and be replaced by their polar opposite.

A rushing desire to bare all, to reveal everything about his past to Spock, who he trusts more than he imagines it was possible to trust anyone – swept away by the familiar crushing fear of rejection, the _certainty_ that his past is too disgusting for anyone to accept. Deep affection towards Spock as he looks into his warm eyes – transformed into fear, annoyance and a very real anger at the persistence of his questions, at the indomitable gaze that holds him trapped as though in a cage with bars Jim should be able to break, but can’t. Awe, that Spock trusts him enough to tell him about his struggles with his human side and the insecurities of his childhood on Vulcan – undermined by a small, mean, metallic feeling that it’s _different_ , that Spock’s problems are not only unrelated but also profoundly simpler, _easier_ , than Jim’s.

Dizziness washes over him. He feels sick.

Jim wrenches his gaze away, a physical feat requiring every ounce of his will, and if something shutters in Spock’s eyes, Jim does not see it.

Terror wins out, as it always does whenever he is forced into a conversation of this nature by anyone – Bones, Gaila, his mother – and he reacts as he knows how, pushing himself off the counter with both palms, standing straight and open and vulnerable, hurling ugly words into the space between him and Spock as his only defense.

“You want to know how I _feel_ , Spock? I feel _sick_ , and _furious_. You and Bones, with all your _care_ , all your _concern_ for the kid – and it’s not that I don’t want him to get better, because I do, I’m not a complete monster – but it’s making me _sick_ because you _can_ _’t understand_ , so _why do you keep trying? Why the hell do you keep. Fucking. Trying?_ ”

Spock’s face is paler than Jim has ever seen it, and he opens his mouth to speak as Jim pauses to breathe. But Jim barrels on, unheeding, unaware of what he is saying but knowing that, at least in this moment, he means every word.

“And then the kid asks if anyone’s coming through after him, and we worry and flutter and say, ‘of course not’, ‘you’re safe here’, and it’s true, but only because the poor sucker doesn’t know that fate has it in for him, that it’s a trick, that the only reason he’s here is to _torment me_.” The unbearable intensity of what he is trying to convey lowers Jim’s voice to a hissing whisper, harsh on the ears. “He’s my own personal demon, he’s followed me out of the depths of hell, and he’ll drag me _back_ , Spock, he’ll _drag me back and I won_ _’t be able to do a damn thing._ ”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“You will not be pulled back. I will not allow it.”

Spock finds himself speaking, unsure of what he is about to say but needing Jim to cease talking. He feels waves roiling against his mental shields, battering them from the inside, growing in intensity with every instant that Jim continues to speak.

He requires meditation. Spock is unsure of why he needled Jim into this conversation now – indeed, he came into the Captain’s quarters with every intention of ascertaining his mental state and then letting him rest – but then Jim had _pretended_. Jim’s prevarication, his insistence that everything was all right, his terror at Spock’s questions, all suggested to him, based on every metric of human emotional management that he has ever studied – and he has made an exhaustive study, for his own benefit, even before joining the human-centric Starfleet – that Jim would need to share his burdens. And added duties would indeed require 98.34 percent of the time Spock would otherwise spend with his Captain over the next five to eight days.

He had not been able to predict this outburst, nor that he would be ill equipped to handle it after the tatters that recent events had made of his shields. He can feel them trembling in his mind, waves rushing across the surface, obscuring the rational depths of his katra with a layer of crashing white foam. A true Vulcan would never have such a problem; his teacher, T’Pranta, had described the trembling as an inherent, structural weakness, and it had sparked multiple academic papers at the Vulcan Science Academy on the biological basis for psi-containment.

None had helped cure the trembling, and this is the first time that Spock has experienced the phenomenon since leaving Vulcan. His Captain, standing across from him with fists clenched, has always driven Spock to extremes.

Spock stands too, rising fluidly and leaning forwards slightly at the hip to place his palms flat on the table between them. He towers over Jim, standing a good head taller. He sees goosebumps rise up like prickles along Jim’s forearms, and conjectures it to be due to the body heat he is releasing in waves, and the contrast of the temperature with the cool air of Jim’s quarters. The tip of Spock’s finger touches the circle of now cold tea that Jim had spilled on the surface of the table, minutes – years – ago. It is cool and damp, a pleasing contrast to the nondescript texture of the table beneath his palms, and Spock focuses on the physicality of the sensation as Jim’s anguished eyes, impossibly blue, bore into his.

_It_ _’s making me sick because you can_ _’t understand, so why do you keep trying?_

The words resonate inside his skull, circling and echoing in endless variations.

Spock feels anger, grief, horror, despair, _pity_ , frustration, disgust with himself for not discerning even a hint of Jim’s past sooner. The planes of his face are still, cold, all his attention focused inwards in an attempt to control the raging waves. He will not release his shields and hurt Jim the way he had with the Doctor.

_My personal demon, risen from the depths of hell to drag me back._

Spock realizes only now that, on an abstract level, he had been convincing himself that the two were different, that young James was a separate entity from Jim. The difference in what they needed from him at this point was stark, and this had no doubt fueled the dichotomy. The boy, recently rescued from hell, needing safety and immediate healing; versus the Captain, Spock’s friend and confidante, the man he respects and cherishes, suffering from residues of a long-ago trauma.

 _My_ personal _demon_ _… to drag me_ back _…_

But they are the same – and is what they need from Spock so very different? They suffered the same starvation during history’s greatest famine and genocide; suffered the same rape at the hands of the madman at the root of it all. The memories that Spock has seen belong to _both_ – to the boy _and_ to the Captain staring at him, trembling and anguished.

Spock cannot bear it. His face and hands feel numb, the magnitude of the emotions roiling across his katra drawing all his focus in a superhuman effort at containment. He is aching, aching with the desire to reach out to Jim and engulf him in his arms and bring him healing – but Jim will not let him and _Spock cannot bear it_. He _cannot_.

When Spock speaks, he barely recognizes his own voice. It is cold.

“You refer to the trauma you experienced on Tarsus IV?”

Jim flinches visibly, but a reckless anger is thrumming through Spock’s veins. Jim draws this side of him out, drives him to abandon his over-considered logic. Jim draws him as a moth to flame in a dance that is usually electric and alive, but which has been twisted and warped by the circumstances of this conversation into a cruel parody of the original.

“What the hell do you mean?”

“I would rephrase my question. What ‘hell’, precisely, has young James risen from?”

“What the _fuck_ , Spock? What’s wrong with you?”

“Answer me, Jim.”

“What did I _experience_? You mean – being starved and beaten, hunted by the worst tyrant in history during a _genetic purging_?”

 _This is madness_ , Spock thinks, _madness_ ; he knows what he is about to do with a crystal clarity, and the suspended moment feels like an age. Were his shields in order and his katra calm, were it anyone standing opposite him except Jim, he would not care to consider it. But the walls Jim has erected to keep him out, the avoidance and prevarication and _lying_ – are tormenting Spock, and _he_ _cannot bear it_. He will batter them down and damn the consequences. It is a primal thought, worthy of the Vulcans of old.

 _This is madness._ But Spock is already speaking, voice still cold and unfamiliar.

“Were you sexually abused?”

The blood drains from Jim’s face, and he stumbles back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. I'm dying. The raw, primal emotions these two draw out in each other are incredibly intense to write. And challenging and slow - each sentence takes an age. I do hope that the intensity is coming through.
> 
> This really is a case of it'll-get-a-lot-worse-before-it-starts-to-get-better. Jim's reaction to this line of questioning is... not pleasant, and I need to touch it up a bit before posting. So I decided to cut it here - apologies for the cliffhanger. I really hope you enjoy this chapter.
> 
> THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING, MY LOVELY LOVELY READERS. And to all you wonderful people who liked this story enough to leave a comment, or a kudos, I ADORE YOU. Please do let me know what you think - your feedback means the world to me! xoxoxoxo


	12. Chapter 12

Jim’s mouth moves. Eyes that had been boring accusingly into Spock’s flit away, down and to the side.

And then leap up, defiant, matching the snap of his voice.

“ _What?_ Of – of course not.”

But – at last – there is a clarity to Spock’s thoughts that lends him calm. Jim’s denial washes over him, evoking none of the anger it would have mere minutes ago. The gauntlet has been thrown down, the course of action set. All that remains is to follow it through to its logical conclusion, and despite the turmoil of the previous moments, Spock feels a measure of peace.

“Jim. I know.”

A pause, infinite. Jim is utterly still, not even breathing.

And then he speaks, voice even but words just a shade too slow.

“How do you know?”

It is simple, and Spock answers simply.

“I received thoughts and images via telepathic transfer.”

“You read the kid’s mind?”

The voice is still too even, too slow.  Spock computes that Jim is speaking at approximately 89.7 percent of his usual speed. His voice has the monotonic, ponderous quality of a Vulcan chant, and the tone unsettles Spock on a visceral level. It is so unlike Jim. But then, Spock has never been able to read Jim as well as Jim can read him.

In confusion – he doesn’t know what Jim really means to ask – Spock answers literally. He feels inadequate, suddenly out of his depth.

“Telepathy is delicate, Jim. I did not _read_ ; rather, I received impressions and emotions from you that you were unable to contain.”

Jim jerks. Somewhere at the periphery of his perception, Spock senses Jim’s heartrate escalate – he is hearing it, perhaps? – and observes his breath coming fast and harsh in response, adrenaline no doubt flooding his veins. Spock’s brow furrows in confusion, but Jim is already speaking, palm held out and fingers splayed wide.

“Wait. Wait wait _wait_.”

Spock waits. Jim’s palm is making short, stabbing motions in the air, and Spock follows the motion with a surreal fascination. His mind is – not numb, but his thoughts are oddly silent.

“ _Wait_. For fuck’s sake.”

Another moment, endless. Spock watches Jim’s palm, ghostly pale in the dim lighting provided by the lamp above the table.

Then Jim takes a breath, eyes closing and hand dropping abruptly.

“Me or the kid?”

Confusion. “Jim?”

“ _Did you see it in my mind, or the kid_ _’s?_ ”

Jim’s nostrils are flared, fists clenched. He is speaking through gritted teeth, eyes burning holes into Spock’s. The display of anger, seemingly directed entirely towards Spock, is deeply unsettling. But even this feeling is far away, and Spock finds that he cannot bring it into focus. Light trivialities skim across the surface of the ocean that is his mind, and all deep analysis is submerged. Spock feels distant, removed. Dissociated.

“I received impressions from both of your minds in the immediate hours following young James’ appearance, but only recently obtained conclusive proof from – ”

And here Spock stops, abrupt and involuntary as shards of broken meaning coalesce into a horrifying whole. His shields, battered and worn, tremble yet again. But no, surely Jim does not think that he _deliberately_ violated his mind. No, he _cannot_ think that of him, but then – why this inexplicable anger, so different from before? Directed neither at his fate nor at the boy, but at _Spock_?

Jim gives him no time to think, voice rising in hysterical mockery.

“Yes? Go on – from? From where did you _obtain conclusive proof_ , Spock?”

“Jim –”

“Say it, _say it_!”

Spock cannot catch hold of his thoughts. They fly, fragmented, scattering and sinking below the surface of his mind, just out of reach. He will be honest, of course, he can never be less than honest – but Jim will likely misunderstand, and the right words are far out of Spock’s reach.

“From your mind.”

Jim’s expression shatters him. It is twisted, wounded with unbearable betrayal. Pain lances Spock’s shields, and somehow, he manages to find words. As always, they are true, but once spoken, Spock finds that they are clumsy and utterly miss the point of what he sought to convey.

“Jim – our minds are compatible. My mind seeks yours, and your thoughts are easily received by mine.”

And now, at last, the accusations spill out of Jim, and Spock can do nothing but take them.

“ _So_? You think that gives you permission to go rooting around in my head for whatever _proof_ strikes your fancy? What happened to the Vulcan code of ethics, huh? What happened to sanctity of thought, and all that bullshit? Oh, you’re all very ‘don’t touch me I’m a telepath’ most of the time, but when it suits you you’re perfectly happy to go for a jaunt through my memories without so much as a by-your-leave!”

Jim’s voice cracks, but he steps forward, thrusting his chin into Spock’s space.

“Tell me, Spock. What gives you the _right?_ ”

Spock stands frozen. His mind is throbbing, pulsating with the ache to explain himself, but now there is an agonizing kernel of anger, of sharp betrayal in turn. Surely – surely Jim cannot believe this of him, cannot believe that he would stoop this low, cannot believe Spock _violated_ his mind _voluntarily_? Spock wavers with indecision, thoughts sluggish and heavy with water.

“Jim. I did not seek it out.”

But the words are too low, too soft, and Jim is beyond listening. His tone is mocking, contemptuous.

“I bet you had a right good time, messing about in my head without me having the slightest fucking clue. Don’t keep it to yourself, Spock. Go on – what did you see?”

And when Spock says nothing, Jim’s voice rises almost to a yell.

“ _What. Did you SEE?_ _”_

“A scene in a cellar. You had been caught after your escape.”

“Ah.” A syllable, bleak and bitter. “Was I naked?”

“Yes.”

“Did I attack him?”

“Yes.”

“Did he bring food? Did he kick it to the floor after he was done? Did I eat it like a dog?”

“My perception of your memory stopped before the conclusion of the scene.”

“Had enough, did you? That was all the _proof_ you needed, eh? Enough to get the general idea, no need to get down and dirty with the details?”

Spock’s eyes squeeze shut. It is too much, simply too _much_.

“Jim. It was not in my control. I swear this to you. Our minds are compatible – ”

But again Jim interrupts, voice still dripping with mockery.

“You seem awfully sure of yourself for someone who claims they didn’t see the whole thing.”

“I was aware of internal injuries of a similar nature on young James.”

“ _Rape_ , Spock. _Torture_ and _rape._ Say it like it is.”

And then, voice suddenly soft and lost – “So you admit you knew the kid had been raped. Bones, I guess?” Jim’s voice cracks on the name, but he doesn’t pause. “And yet you still claim you weren’t searching for proof in my thoughts on purpose…”

“I was not, Jim.”

“I never knew you to lie before, Spock.”

The words crash into him with the force of a physical blow, and Spock stumbles, catching the side of the table for support. He is stooped, but does not notice the unnatural bend of his body as he turns his face away from Jim.

Spock has never felt so cold, so numb. Coherent thought is impossible through the sadness, the betrayal, the waves of anger and frustration sweeping through him. He makes a last attempt, words flat and dull.

“Jim. Your thoughts were open to mine because our minds are compatible. The telepathic exchange was not under my control, but it was a gross violation of your privacy nonetheless. I ask your forgiveness.”

Jim shakes his head, slowly, eyes tracking Spock’s bent back and then seeing right through him. Spock’s words barely register.

“And this whole time, you _knew_ , and you came into my quarters and we talked and – and you drank _tea_ , and you _pretended_ …”

And what is one more unfair accusation, when Spock’s back is literally bent under the weight of a hundred others? Spock hardly notices the pain.

Jim’s voice is a whisper, now, deadly cold.

“Get out.”

“Jim – ” But there is nothing to say.

“Get out.”

The tone of Jim’s voice has risen again. Now, it is calm and light, almost conversational. Apart from a slight tremble, he could have been asking Spock to pass a padd.

“Jim – ”

“Leave my quarters immediately, Commander.”

Slowly, Spock straightens. Jim’s eyes are raised, fixed on a spot on the wall to the left of Spock’s head. The dismissal is clear, and perhaps, Spock thinks, it is time to acknowledge it.

In any event, he desperately requires meditation.

“Yes, Sir.” A brief nod, and then the doors hiss shut behind him.

 

\---------------------------------------------------

 

Jim’s legs give way and he sinks to the floor.

Spock _knew_ …

The cellar scene – and isn’t that a fucking appropriate name, like his life is some play, ‘all the world’s a stage’ and all that rot – is really the best representation of his time with Kodos that he can remember. If he had to broadcast his past to viewers, that would be the scene he’d pick. Capture, starvation, beating, his desperate attack and then hopeless submission to the rape – all mixed in with a good dose of ideology, a crash-course in genetic purity dogma from Kodos himself. Come one, come all, front row seats on discount. Don’t miss it!

Spock couldn’t have chosen better.

Betrayal, white-hot, rushes through him and leaves him trembling. Tears leak out of his eyes, but they are unnoticed and bring no relief.

Rational thought is impossible in the face of flashbacks so vivid they sear the back of his eyeballs, then eyelids when he squeezes them shut. Kodos, his voice and touch, light and feathery until suddenly they are not, until they are the cruelest thing he has ever known. His eyes, pale and alight with madness – chased away by Spock’s eyes, eyes that so casually saw everything that Jim sought so desperately to hide all these years, Spock’s mind that invaded Jim’s past with an ease that is nothing short of _callous_ –

But this is Spock! And he denied it –

But he did it anyway.

_Were you sexually abused?_

_No! Of course not._ Jim’s forehead throbs with shame.

 _I only obtained conclusive proof from_ _– your mind._

Spock had said those very words. Jim is not misremembering. And what in hell gave him the damn _right_?

But this is _Spock_!

And after all – he stayed, didn’t he? He could have seen all he wanted and then left, ignored it or requested a transfer or whatever. He didn’t have to stay here with Jim, didn’t have to offer a comforting ear…

_Jim. Friend. I would listen to you._

But- and here's the clincher, really. Spock  _entered his mind, without permission._

Jim wants to scream. His thoughts circle unwearyingly, like vultures circling over a slowly dying beast, infinitely patient and endlessly greedy. And looming above everything, a thundercloud of dirty tears, is the _shame_. Spock _saw him being raped by Kodos_. He _saw it_.

Jim can’t fucking _bear_ this.

Times passes. He has no idea how much. Time is stretching like an elastic band in the hands of a mad child who is unaware of how he is hurting himself or others as he twists it, snapping and looping and pulling, perpetually tense and translucent but never quite breaking.

And then – his alarm goes off. It is mundane, utterly familiar, a jerk back to reality. His morning melody – a soft orion tree-song that Gaila used to love – gently fills his quarters. He loves this tune, and the light rhythmic bass that thrums beneath it. It thrills him, reminds him of the vastness of space and of the miracle of life and exploration that is the _Enterprise_. The melody reaches up, high and rich, growing in complexity as it rises, like the famous _nyrha_ trees of Gaila’s home planet, rooted in a rhythm of indefatigable strength.

A breath, ragged.

And Jim gets up and goes to shower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this was hard. And late.
> 
> In the end, though, I'm happy with it. I wrote it feverishly for hours in the middle of the night, and while I don't think it's possible to be entirely satisfied with a scene like this - it's too raw, and there's always more to explore, and underneath it all is the worry that everything is spiraling totally out of control and out of character - I am happy with how it turned out.
> 
> I do hope you like it. And thank you, THANK YOU for your endless patience with me, and your UTTERLY WONDERFUL support for this story. Each and every one of your reviews mean the world to me. I LOVE YOU ALL SO SO MUCH.
> 
> xoxoxoxo
> 
> Seriously, though, I am going to increase the frequency of my updates. It annoys me all the time, how hopelessly slow and unreliable I am.
> 
> THIS WILL CHANGE.
> 
> <3


	13. Chapter 13

The door to his quarters has barely finished hissing shut before Spock has discarded his uniform on the back of a chair and folded himself onto his meditation mat, foregoing his usual robes in favor of haste. Spock curls his toes into the mat. It is a beloved gift from his mother, and the soft, threaded texture of the weave welcomes him into place.

A deep knot of tension unfurls from his side. It was a surprise to his parents and the teachers that Spock, fifty five point three percent human, was able to derive such peace from meditation. But later they found it logical – his psi-abilities were heightened by his half-human nature, and shielding had never come as effortlessly to him as to his peers.

His mind swirls with waves, untamed and frothing. Protectiveness towards Jim and rage at his past is now folded in with sharp betrayal over Jim’s accusations, at his casual belief that Spock had _voluntarily_ violated his mind. Such action is anathema to Vulcans, as to many telepathic beings. It is a wound to core of Spock, to the code of ethics he holds as an unassailable measure of his value.

For _Jim_ to believe such things –

_Talak n_ _’var sake_ _’l_ _’ya mi-nohr ut-if-fee, wo ni zih-a_ _’hr talak n_ _’var sake_ _’l_ _’ya mi-nohr_ _…_

_My mind is a lake and deep within there is truth and peace, and with the logic of my thoughts I calm the water and sink deep into my mind that is a lake and deep within there is truth and peace..._

It is the second time in as many days that he has required the chant – a training tool for children, more than anything else – to sink into the third level of his trance. In the past, Spock would have felt shame at this, but he has moved beyond such illogical thoughts. He has embraced a level of self-acceptance he had once thought beyond him, as a hybrid of two worlds.

The Captain’s influence has played no small part in this, and as Spock sinks into depths of his lake, the turmoil at the surface is – at last – muted. Calm energy thrums through his veins, and Spock feels energized, rejuvenated at the lifting of a burden whose weight he had not realized until it was gone. With it vanishes the sense of betrayal.

Confronted with Jim’s face as he sinks into the sixth level of the trance, Spock finds it unchanged. The gossamer-fine gold threads encircling his essence, tying Spock’s katra to him, are as firm as ever. As always when he is here, suspended above the swirling psi-energy, he feels a depth of clarity that leaves no room for even the barest hint of self-deception.

Jim is a human.

Further to this, he is one who has never received healing for trauma that would break the strongest of his race.

Anger, and the projection of it onto others, is a defense mechanism in humans.

The textbook details crystallize into focus before Spock. _Defense mechanism_ _–_ _the redirection of an impulse, usually anger or aggression, onto a point of target who is far removed from the subject_ _’s own experience. These come into play when the original aggressor is inaccessible or generates emotions unbearable to the subject, such as intense fear, frustration or disgust._

Spock lingers, suspended in the stillness of the sixth level, resting deeply. The edges of his consciousness flit along the gold lines of his katra, tracing the deeply intricate strands. It is a fractal pattern, repeating endlessly across scales, self-similar but never dying away into smoothness, always revealing additional depths. Infinite complexity in a finite volume. Spock feels amusement – the phrase is an apt descriptor of Jim.

Spock sinks deeper, sliding through the bottom of the lake into the cavern-like space at the root of his psi-energy. The sensation of thrumming energy rushes through him like a shock of cold water, energizing his limbs and pouring energy into his shields. The effects are equivalent to those engendered in humans by hours of deep sleep. Then, guided by his internal chronometer, Spock sets a steady, measured pace as he rises back up, carefully peeling away the meditative layers.

He breaks the surface of the lake. It is much calmer now, although the waves are still more powerful than Spock prefers, and flecked with the barest hints of white.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------

On his way to the science labs, Spock stops at Sickbay. Young James is fast asleep, blankets and sheets tangled and knotted around his legs, half spilling onto the floor. Spock pauses to disentangle them. With careful movements, he tucks in the corners of the bedsheets, and lightly layers the blankets to cover James’ chest and neck. The boy immediately burrows in, until nothing but his shock of bronze-gold hair can be seen. Spock’s mouth softens.

Doctor McCoy is bent over paperwork in his office, but throws down his pen when he sees Spock in the doorway.

“How’s Jim?”

Spock hesitates, saying nothing. McCoy narrows his eyes.

“He’s scheduled back on the bridge today. Any more time off and I’d have to register a psych eval with Starfleet, and whatever you may have to say about ethics, this is a grey area and my loyalty to Jim trumps my loyalty to Starfleet.”

“While I do not doubt your integrity, Doctor, I would ask that you explain your reasoning.”

McCoy rolls his eyes, leaning forwards and speaking intensely.

“Don’t worry, Spock, I’m making a carefully considered decision here – I honestly do believe that getting back onto the bridge will be good for Jim. At the very least, it’s better than hashing out his past in a psych eval that will be immortalized on Starfleet record.”

Spock inclines his head.

“I find that I agree. The Captain’s professionalism has proven impeccable in the past. I believe his ability to discharge his command duties will remain unaffected by recent events. Furthermore, a return to the bridge is a powerful reminder that the trauma he experienced on Tarsus remains an occurrence of the past, and need not influence his current situation – with the exception, of course, of the obvious presence of the boy.”

McCoy nods, sharp and decisive.

“A very valid point, Spock. I hadn’t realized that.”

“Furthermore, given that the time of the trauma is long past, and its sensitive nature, perhaps it is best not to, as you say, force the issue. Jim will require our presence as friends, not interrogators.”

At McCoy’s sharp look, Spock lowers his gaze.

“I admit that my conversation with the Captain last night caused him significant distress.”

McCoy’s face creases with sorrow, but Spock is surprised to observe that the emotion does not appear to be directed at him. He had been expecting irritation or anger. But McCoy is speaking softly, almost to himself.

“Yeah, I can’t believe he’d be ready to just come out and share, would he? Even with the kid right in front of his nose… doesn’t change the fact that it’s all been buried for so long.”

Spock finds himself reluctant to say more, and merely nods. McCoy seems not to notice, staring past Spock into the distance.

After a moment of stillness, Spock continues.

“I request that you comm me when young James awakens. Also, please see to it that he is provided with oatmeal and plums for his morning meal.”

McCoy’s face breaks into a grin.

“Sure thing, Commander. Brown sugar and all.”

Spock feels a light flush rise on the tips of his ears, and McCoy chuckles.

“Don’t worry, Spock, I’ll comm you on the bridge with the status of the kid’s breakfast.”

“While your offer is appreciated, Doctor, I will be spending the morning in the science labs, not on the bridge.”

“Oh? Why’s that?”

“Lieutenant-Commander Scott has sent me the data files for the impact of the missiles fired by the pseudo-warbird at the Enterprise. I will require my team and the computing tools of the physics lab to conduct the analysis.”

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

A pause. Spock blinks.

Then – “Why’re you avoiding the Captain, Commander?”

McCoy smirks. The pause stretches, and Spock is again reminded that this man is the Captain’s closest friend, and equally adept at unfathomable human leaps of intuition.

“I fear my presence on the bridge today would cause the Captain distress which would endure for the duration of alpha shift, as the bridge is not an appropriate venue for further discussion upon the subject of our disagreement last evening.”

McCoy’s eyes are compassionate.

“That bad, huh?”

“Furthermore, while I have no doubt of our professionalism, the human crew would be likely to notice tension in our interactions. The _kar-lin-mesch_ is source enough for gossip; I am reluctant to add to the rumors surrounding the Captain.”

It is not all the reason, but it is reason enough. If Spock cannot endure the disappointment in Jim’s eyes, McCoy does not need to know.

“True enough, Commander. I’ll comm you in the labs when the kid wakes up.” His eyes are worried. “Take care, Spock.”

Spock inclines his head, turning away. He pauses with his hand on the door, face half-turned back to McCoy’s desk.

“Perhaps you would schedule your midday break with the Captain’s, today.”

McCoy waves the padd in his hand. “Already done, Spock.”

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

As Jim leaves his quarters, he picks up the padd his yeoman has left in the docket beside the door, with his early-morning messages helpfully categorized and ranked. Marked red – the Admiralty demanding a follow-up conference call about their report on the fake warbird. Jim grimaces. The investigation has barely kicked off. He’ll delay the call until they’ve found something useful.

Routine approvals and proposals – Uhura’s linguistic triangulation protocol is already looking fantastic and should be able to be rolled out this alpha shift, and Jim signs off on it with pleasure as he steps into the turbolift leading out of the officers’ quarters to the main areas of the ship. The familiar weight of Captaincy settles on his shoulders, and he feels whole for the first time since the appearance of his younger self.

Immersed in his padd as he walks towards the main bridge turbolift, Jim stops short. Marked orange and filed under staffing matters – a message from his First. Resolutely feeling nothing, Jim taps it.

_Captain_ _–_

_I have scheduled myself in the science labs for the duration of alpha bridge shift today. The Engineering department concluded their gathering of missile impact data at 0527 ship time, and my team and I will require the computational abilities of the physics lab to conduct the analysis._

_I have assigned Lieutenant Yalmers to cover the science station on the bridge in my absence. I am, as always, at your service for any matter in which you may require assistance._

_Welcome back to the bridge, Sir._

_– Spock_

Well. Apart from that last line, the note could be any one of several others Jim has received from Spock over the years. The science station on the bridge _is_ quite limited, and Spock would have received the same communiqué from the Admiralty telling them, basically, to get cracking.

There’s more, though, obviously – they haven’t resolved their argument from last night. Something ugly inside Jim whispers at him to think that Spock is avoiding him because he can’t bear to be around him now that he knows of his past – but Jim doesn’t really believe it. The last line echoes with warmth, understated and easily missed, but now that Jim knows what to look for, characteristic of his First. Spock is welcoming him back to the bridge. It is a statement of confidence in Jim’s abilities, in his capacity to command despite the revelations of the past few days.

And it is from _Spock_ , whose opinion Jim has grown to trust as much as his own. Spock, who knows _everything_. The thought still sends a hot, directionless anger pulsing through Jim – but in the light of day, with this message in his hands, it is mixed vaguely with guilt. Jim is now far from certain about what exactly he was accusing Spock of last night.

An ensign walks past, casting a curious look at her Captain, standing motionless in the passageway. Jim shakes his head and grins at her, and she ducks her head, smiling shyly back at him. As he steps into the turbolift, Jim’s grin lingers. Spock would never allow the Enterprise to fall into less than perfectly capable hands.

_Welcome back to the bridge, Sir._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I failed at posting early. Thank you, dearest readers, from the bottom of my lazy heart, for sticking with this story and leaving your lovely, lovely feedback that never fails to make my WEEK.  
> This chapter was kind of a ball of string rolling in a bazillion different directions, there is just so much that has to happen with the plot and pacing, and so this is a lot of set-up. But Jim is back on the bridge - yay! And I think some real progress has been made towards the next phase of this story.  
> I SO HOPE YOU ENJOY! LOVE AND HUGS AND SAD APOLOGIES FOR THE LATENESS <3 <3 <3 xoxoxoxoxo


	14. Chapter 14

“Keptin on ze bridge!”

Chekov’s voice rings out, and every chair on the bridge swivels to face the turbolift as Jim steps out.

“Captain! Great to have you back!” Sulu grins madly at him.

“Welcome back, Sir.” Uhura’s voice is calm and measured, but her eyes are dancing and she’s smiling a little. Jim blushes slightly. He still isn’t fully used to Uhura respecting him enough to actually like him. He’s not sure when she decided he had earned his Captaincy, and the right to her friendship, but he’s damn proud to have finally managed it.

Lieutenant Yalmers looks nervous at finding himself at the science station during alpha shift, but also pleased. He greets Jim soberly. “Very pleased to see you back, Captain.” From the tactical station on his left, Lieutenant Foster’s antennae wave at him in welcome. She is half-Andorian, with a soft voice and human skin tinged with the barest hint of blue.

Jim grins broadly, sweeping his eyes across the bridge and the faces turned towards him. He is closer to some than to others, of course, but they are family – and the bridge is home. The atmosphere is one of crisp efficiency, rooted in years of unity in the face of overwhelming odds.

“Thanks, guys.” He grins wider. “But I’ve hardly been gone two days and here you all are acting like I’m back from a month in sickbay.”

Uhura rolls her eyes. “Apologies for our concern, Captain. After all, we only saw you being consumed by an ancient, immensely powerful, incredibly dangerous artifact.”

“You saw me on the bridge after that! With the fake Klingons!”

Sulu responds this time, indignant. “A sudden crisis, during which you couldn’t take the conn, and after which you were gone for another day! Admit it, Sir, you’ve got a bad history of pushing yourself through emergencies when you’re injured.”

Chekov is nodding solemnly. “Da. And then none of us know anything about the archway. Its effects could be slow, or invisible.” Suddenly, looking scared at his own words, he bounds up from his seat and comes up to circle Jim warily, eyes running up and down Jim’s body.

Jim stares in disbelief, craning his neck around when Chekov pauses to examine a spot on Jim’s left shoulder.

“What – what are you doing?”

“Just checking, Keptin.”

Jim pauses. Chekov continues to circle.

“…You want a tricorder with that?”

“Vell yes, but since none of us have one, we must trust in Doctor McCoy.”

“But not enough to assume he actually did his job before clearing me for duty?”

“Trusting out of necessity is very different from trusting blindly, Keptin.”

“Oh ho! Very wise, Ensign.”

“Zey are the words of Commander Spock.” Chekov worships Spock.

“Commander Spock is very wise, Chekov.”

“Indeed, Keptin, I agree.”

“ _Commander_ _Spock_ clearly has no objection to my returning to the bridge.”

“You are here, and he is not, so I cannot ask him, which brings us back to the original point about blind trust. Sir.”

Jim snaps his mouth shut, and glares.

Chekov glares right back, and continues to circle. When he reaches out a finger to poke the small of Jim’s back, Jim looks wildly around at his crew for help. Meeting his pleading eyes, Uhura just raises a stonefaced eyebrow, Sulu’s manic grin widens, and even Lieutenant Foster crosses her arms.

Jim gives up, batting Chekov’s finger away from where he seems to be testing Jim’s elbow joints with a series of sharp jabs.

“Quit it!”

At Chekov’s wounded pout, Jim turns to face them all, hands up in surrender.

“I’m seriously, seriously fine, guys. One hundred percent top physical shape.” He’s grinning, body loose and relaxed, genuinely pleased to be back on the bridge – but still, he sees Uhura look up sharply at his wording.

Jim feels a surge of defensiveness, and he really, really can’t help it when he darts a glance towards the science station – for support? Reassurance? Justification? Jim has no clue.

But it doesn’t matter, because Spock’s not there. Instead, it’s Yalmers, his auburn hair falling in long wisps over the collar of his science blues. He is short, and sits slightly slumped, upper back and shoulders curling over the console. There is no pale-green neck, no tapered ear, no textbook posture. Suddenly, Yalmers’ presence feels so jarringly out-of-place that Spock’s absence is amplified, filling all of Jim’s senses. The shadows of their last conversation seep back into his mind, insidious.

Jim pulls his gaze away, keeping his expression schooled. He feels an aggressive urge, as if he’s proved some kind of point and no one is there to witness it.

Except Uhura – and Jim has no idea what she’s getting from his face. Her eyebrows scrunch together.

Fighting the urge to raise his, Jim stares back blandly.

The next instant, Uhura’s forehead is as flawlessly smooth as ever. She turns back to her station without a word.

It is to the everlasting credit of the bridge crew that they ask nothing. Even as they welcome Jim back and fuss over him and poke fun at his health – _literally_ , in Chekov’s case – they ask nothing about the boy. Jim knows they’ve probably already grilled Spock about it. He’s got no worries there. Spock would guard his secrets better than Jim would himself. It’s Spock’s opinion he’s worried about – the _change_ in his opinion, now that he knows about Jim’s past – but he’s never for one instant been worried that Spock would breathe a word to anyone.

But the bridge crew don’t need words, or even gestures. The barest hint of reticence in Spock’s manner, a tightness in Jim’s face – the smallest subtleties are picked up and interpreted by the crew of the Enterprise, each individual brilliant in their own right. No – they will wait, taking their cues from their Captain, until he is ready to bring up the subject himself.

Jim is so grateful his throat feels tight. Walking over to his chair – Sulu’s finally dragged Chekov away – Jim sinks down and closes his eyes. When he opens them seconds later, Sulu is looking right at him. His brown eyes are so dark they are almost black, and their usual amused glint has been replaced by something deeply fierce.

The message is clear. _I_ _’ve got your back, Captain._

Jim nods once, jerkily, in acknowledgement. Sulu grins at him briefly, eyes softening, before standing and clasping his hands behind his back.

“Permission to report on ship’s status after the recent altercation, Captain?” His face and voice are smooth, professional. Sulu is third officer of the Enterprise, and in Spock’s absence, takes over this role on the bridge.

And just like that, Jim is completely relaxed. He gestures for Sulu to go ahead.

“Please, Lieutenant. Thank you.”

“Engineering finished running diagnostics midway through delta shift, and updated the science department with missile impact data by the end of delta, by which time Lieutenant-Commander Scott was able to recalibrate the warp core and power the Enterprise out of the gravity well of the Bastion-Droid we are currently orbiting. Science is currently running analysis on the data and should have a report on the novel weaponry aboard the faux-warbird at fourteen-hundred ship-time today.”

Sulu pauses, then continues at Jim’s nod.

“The team from Tactics has assembled a report on the pseudo-warbird encounter to be sent to Starfleet Command, awaiting your sign-off. The medical team reports twelve injured crewmembers, each requiring twelve to forty-eight hours of recovery at a maximum. Operations reports two damaged decks, with areas including Rec Room 5, Greenhouse M12 and the shared quarters of ensigns from Security and Crisis Management. The warp-factor equipment in Observatory XV2 also requires extensive recalibration. Timeline for full repairs is approximately nine days, but the decks and sleeping quarters will be usable within the day.”

Jim nods. Though he is familiar with most of this information already – his padd receives periodic updates from each division – the succinct brief is useful. He might have missed something, and in any case the bridge crew benefit from being on the same page.

“Excellent, Lieutenant. Thank you.”

“Sir.” Sulu straightens, before turning and sitting back down.

Jim turns to the tactical officer. “Lieutenant Foster?”

“Yes, Captain?”

“You recall the automatic warp core-shielding protocol I suggested we implement after the mission on Deneb XVI?”

She’s already nodding, antennae waving.

“To be sure, Sir! Ensign Mabarra and I have been working on the codebase framework you provided for three weeks now. Understood that this second warp core-related emergency should bump that up to priority one.”

Jim grins. “Exactly, Lieutenant. Thank you. Also, I’m sure you’re aware that we’re not actually allowed to implement any such automatic controls without approval from Command – so if you can run some numbers, show how much risk and/or damage we could have avoided with that protocol in place, it would be fantastic.”

“It should be a significant amount, since we’d have entered warp right after the protocol ran the impact analysis of the very first hit from that crazy long-distance phaser… not to mention the risk factors that would have arisen if we hadn’t been able to find a planet of appropriate mass-level nearby… or if the other ship hadn’t fallen for our random drifting bluff…”

“A compelling case, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Oh _yes_ , Sir.” She’s in the zone, smiling half to herself.

“I’ll sign off on any more manpower you need to get this rolling as fast as possible.”

“Two more ensigns from Tactics and one from Crisis Management or Science, and we could have this for you within the day, Captain.”

“Consider them requisitioned. Yeoman Rand will assign them.”

“Already done, Sir.” Rand’s voice in his ear, where she keeps a channel open to the bridge so she can facilitate just such requests as these.

“Thanks, everyone. Great work, Lieutenant.”

Foster blushes a slight blue, and turns quickly back to her station.

Quiet reigns on the bridge for the better part of an hour, and Jim immerses himself in his padd. The silence thrums with life. The scratch of a stylus pressed too forcefully against a padd, light scrapings of chairs or monitors being readjusted. Soft breathing, and the occasional murmur. Below the surface noises of the crew, computers hum steadily and consoles emit the occasional bleep. And, beneath it all, in a subsonic cadence that Jim is finding himself more and more attuned to, thrums the heart of the Enterprise. The resonance fills Jim’s bones.

Jim is jerked back to reality when Uhura slaps her console.

“Damn code gets stuck in this infinite loop every time – have a look, Spock?” Jim stifles a jolt at the name.

Uhura startles, swiveling to face Yalmers, who grins self-deprecatingly.

“Oh, wait. Sorry. Captain? Chekov?”

After Spock, they are the two best coders on the Enterprise. Jim’s the better hacker, but Spock, with his eidetic memory and direct input into many of Starfleet’s core systems, has a knack for implementing the most gnarly of requests. Jim bounds up to Uhura’s station, Chekov in tow.

“Walk us through it, Lieutenant.”

“As you know, we’re trying to triangulate the faux-Klingon’s original planet. The program is running through this list of speech indicators scraped from the recording of the encounter and comparing to the standard indicator database.”

Jim reaches over to scroll through the lines of code.

“Right, got it. And this part here – a renormalization function?”

Chekov pipes up. “Yes, it’s compensating for the different frequency of indicators, I think?”

“Yep, exactly. There’s several of those, and then several filters to parse and compare content phrasing – but I’m pretty sure the problem isn’t there, I wrote them years ago and they’ve been running perfectly since.”

“Okay.” Jim switches to the next section of code.

“Yeah, so this part is likely the problem. I used the triangulation node network thing you suggested, Chekov, but I’ve no idea how to debug it.”

Chekov grabs the controls from Jim, scrolling down at double his speed. Jim shakes his head, yet again resisting the urge to ruffle the kid’s hair.

Chekov reads for several seconds. “Zis point-to-point comparison tool at each node is implemented differently than I’ve ever seen before, but I can’t figure out why it’s wrong, exactly.”

The three of them stare at the screen.

Jim speaks up, slowly – “I’m guessing, the way it’s written, if the matching index is high enough in a particular case, the system would just try to run down each node at once with equal probability, and that would escalate into infinity? It would have to be a real outlier, though.”

Chekov is nodding furiously. “Da, da. Zat is almost definitely it. The possibilities would grow faster than the network itself.”

“Okay, but I’ve got no clue how to fix it.”

Chekov is typing furiously. “Ve can simply expand the network with dummy-variables that are not called into use except in the case of such outliers, Keptin.”

Uhura chimes in. “That sounds great, Chekov, but I’m already using up the bridge computer’s nodal regression memory. I guess I’ll take it down to Physics?”

“Yes, yes. And Commander Spock can have a look as well, make sure none of the data is being lost down the expanded network. I think he recently wrote some boundary capture protocols for vast-sample cases like zis.”

Jim nods. “Yeah, the star-mapping on Betel 9K used something similar, I think. Sounds good, guys. Head down there whenever you’re ready, Lieutenant.”

Uhura turns to Jim. “Commander Spock’s in Physics this morning?”

“Yeah, he’s working on the missile impact data.”

“I see.”

Her eyes are sharp, slightly worried. Uhura always sees entirely too much.

But she continues smoothly. “I hope there’s enough capacity left for this, then. Or we’ll be requisitioning medical’s backup storage, because they have far too much and they know it, but Doctor McCoy will be cranky all day.”

Sulu shudders. “Let’s avoid that, please.”

Jim snorts. “Ha ha. I’m having lunch with him, and you’re coming too, Sulu.”

“No _way_ , if Uhura steals his storage.”

“ _Especially_ then.”

“Take Chekov. He’s too cute to hurt.”

“Why must you always pick on me, Hikaru?”

“Yeah, Sulu. Bullying the kids again?”

“I am sure it is hopeless to repeat zat I am not a kid, Keptin.”

“Spot on, kid. But please, you’re welcome to join me and Sulu.”

“Too much control over one’s crew is never good, Captain. I may mutiny.”

“Even the threat of mutiny is insubordination, Lieutenant.”

Uhura rolls her eyes.

“Hilarious, guys. I’m off.”

“Don’t steal his storage! _Please_. Last time he sneaked out my Rigelian pus-exploding tubers, and neither the poor plants nor the lieutenant he used them on were ever the same.”

“Consider me warned.” Flashing a grin, Uhura saunters into the turbolift, leaving Sulu staring forlornly after her.

Jim finds himself staring forlornly as well, overcome by a sudden urge to see Spock, and a strange worry of what Uhura will find when she does. To those who know him – and Uhura _does_ – Spock’s poker face could be an open book.

Spock _chose_ to remain away from the bridge this morning. Jim can’t deny that it’s allowed him to relax more than he ever would be able to with Spock right there, the specter of last night’s conversation running through both their skulls, but _still_. Spock had to be disturbed enough to consciously stay away. To not know what Spock is thinking, how he is feeling – not only about Jim’s past but about the accusations that Jim hurled at him – is deeply unsettling.

Swallowing down the emotions in his throat – confusion, worry, relief, more than a small dose of guilt – Jim walks slowly back to his chair, and pulls up the next file on his padd.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhhhhh, so much bridge crew, I love itttttt  
> I love the bridge crewwwwwww  
> On the other hand, my plans for this chapter included Spock's breakfast with little James and then Jim meeting him again...  
> And ALSO included some Uhura-Spock interaction in the physics lab...  
> But this is already way longer than my other chapters, so heh. More bridge crew love for y'all, I guess.  
> Honestly, I started writing this scene with Jim walking onto the bridge and the first 500 words were crazy slow, and then suddenly the next 2000 were there. These characters just grip me with both hands and refuse to let go!!!!!
> 
> I so hope you enjoy, you LOVELY, FABULOUS readers! This chapter is in quite a different tone to the last few, but I think it fits well. It takes all kinds to make a story, as they say. Or not. I'm not sure if anyone's ever said that about chapters, actually. Heh.
> 
> As you can see, I'm really having fun with this one. TEEHEEEHEHEHEHEEEEEEE. Okay I will stop blabbering.
> 
> My only problem is the now-protracted absence of little James... and so, he will 100% be front and center of the next chapter.
> 
> THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING, FROM THE BOTTOM OF MY HEART. YOUR REVIEWS AND FEEDBACK MEAN THE ABSOLUTE WORLD TO ME. I AM JUST SO THRILLED THAT YOU CHOOSE TO SHARE THIS WORLD WITH ME - I LOVE YOU ALL SO MUCHHHHHHHHHHH <3 <3 <3 xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo


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